Page 10 of When Love Found Us
Except—I made a deal with San. I stay two years, and if it doesn’t work, he pays me what I would’ve earned doing my regular guest appearances. If the place becomes what he envisions, I have to buy him out—not sure where I’ll get the fucking money for that. That’s a problem for never because I’m here to prove him wrong.
Exhaling through my nose, jaw tight, I unlock the door.
The Shop.
The moment I step inside, I know I’m fucked.
The place isn’t half-finished or a work in progress. It’s done.
The walls are a deep charcoal, smooth and freshly painted. The floors are a mix of polished hardwood and dark tile, giving the space a clean, professional feel. The stations are already set up—brand-new black leather chairs, adjustable lights, stainless steel tool trays waiting to be stocked. Everything is exactly how I designed it when Sanford finally convinced me to do this.
I drag a hand over my jaw, scanning the space, letting the silence settle around me. The air still carries the scent of fresh paint and new furniture, not the familiar mix of ink, antiseptic, and burnt skin I’m used to.
I don’t like it.
Not yet.
Crossing the shop, my boots thud against the floors as I head toward the back, where the storage room is supposed to be. I push the door open—and grit my teeth.
Fully stocked.
Shelves lined with ink bottles, boxes of gloves, fresh machines, and needles. Every single thing I’d need. Every single thing I would have ordered myself if I had taken the time. It’s obvious now—Sanford wasn’t just making this easy. He was making it impossible for me to leave.
If this place had been a mess—half-finished, needing repairs—I could have walked away without hesitation. But now? I’d have to be an idiot to turn my back on it.
And Sanford knew that.
I exhale, running a hand through my hair. This is real. This isn’t just another guest spot in another city, another temporary gig before I move on. This is mine. At least for two years. That’s the deal.
But if I stay . . . this is the last place I want to be. There’s too much history here, none of it good. Losing my mom. Learning that my so-called happy family of three was a lie. Finding out my father was a piece of shit who liked to hit his wife and kids. Oh, there was also the fact that he had another family.
Those aren’t memories I want following me for the rest of my life.
Still, I’m going to humor Sanford. Let him think I’m giving this place a chance. Let him believe I’ll stick around. But he’s the one wasting money—I’m just the guy indulging his crazy ideas. Worst case? I lose some of my following for a bit. Best case? I prove Birchwood Springs isn’t the place for a tattoo shop, and I walk away clean.
After I check the shop, I decide it’s time to head upstairs. The only sound is my own footsteps as I head toward the staircase. Sanford mentioned a studio on the second floor, something I could crash in until I found a real place.
I push open the door, and the first thing I see is the kitchen—sleek black countertops, warm wooden cabinets, brand-new stainless steel appliances. This isn’t some half-assed kitchenette. It’s a real kitchen. The living room is fully furnished—leather couch, coffee table, flat-screen TV mounted on the wall like someone planned for me to stay awhile.
I exhale through my nose, pushing open the first door in the hallway. A big bedroom.
King-sized bed. Dark wood furniture. A dresser. Even a closet.
And inside? My boxes. The ones I had in storage. Fucking Sanford, I swear he’s going to pay for this. Not sure what this is, but he’ll pay. While I plan his demise, I move to check the rest of the apartment.
The second bedroom is slightly smaller. There’s a desk, a bed, and, of course, another walk-in closet. Sanford didn’t just create a workspace—he added a home.
I grip the doorframe, staring at the room like it might disappear if I blink too hard. This wasn’t just an investment. This was a plan. A carefully orchestrated trap to make sure I had no excuse to leave.
Well, good fucking luck keeping me here after the two-year agreement. He’ll have to pay me, and then he can figure out what the hell to do with this place. I don’t even bother with the rest. I head back to the bedroom, drop onto the bed, and let my body sink into the mattress.
I’m too damn tired to think about what I should be doing.
ChapterFive
Henrietta (Blythe)
Things I learned yesterday:there’s a postcard-perfect hotel in Birchwood Springs and a ridiculously charming bed-and-breakfast, both oozing with that curated small-town warmth. These are the sort of places I’d love to visit if I were here on vacation. I’d sip overpriced tea and pretend I was the kind of person who knew what “notes of bergamot” actually meant.
