Page 120 of When Love Found Us
I pinch his thigh under the desk, whispering back, “If you want me to start calling you Mr. Timberbridge, sure.”
Atlas grins, all trouble, but his eyes say something deeper.
Pride.
Possession.
Love.
And maybe that’s why my breath catches when I glance down at the paper one last time.
Because this isn’t just a name.
This is ours now.
Not something temporary.
Not a shield to keep me safe.
This is forever.
ChapterForty-Five
Blythe
It’s been almostten weeks since my life started changing.
No. Longer than that.
It started the moment I found the courage to leave my old life, my abusive husband, and everything that was slowly destroying me physically and mentally. The moment I took the first step toward something different, even when I didn’t know where it would lead.
Six months of hiding, but also searching.
For myself. For my future.
And somehow, along the way, I foundhim. I found love. The love of my life—Atlas Timberbridge.
Now, we have a home. Not an apartment on top of our business. Not a temporary hideout. A real home.
The house we bought is close to Atlas’s favorite lake, tucked in a place that feels untouched, quiet like a secret only we know. It’s the same spot he used to escape to when he needed to breathe. When the Timberbridge name felt more like a burden than a bloodline.
And now, it’s ours.
This home is everything I never thought I wanted and more.
Atlas is across the room that will become the nursery, screwdriver in one hand, eyeing the half-built crib like it personally offended him. The pieces are scattered across the wooden floor, the instructions crumpled beside him.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. He insists on doing everything himself for our daughter. Sanford reminded him that the concierge who helped us furnish the house could hire someone to create the perfect nursery, but he insists we do it ourselves.
On the wall behind him, there’s my own little hell. I’ve painted different squares trying to decide what color I want this room to be—sage, yellow, gray, mauve, and a lilac that is so peaceful it might be the winner. Though I haven’t made up my mind, all the nonsense colors are driving Atlas insane.
Atlas exhales slowly, tilting his head at the wall like the color selection is what’s keeping him from figuring out the crib.
“Do you need help?” I ask, trying to keep the amusement out of my voice.
He glances at me, then at the crib, then back again. “No. This is fine.”
“You might want to follow the instructions,” I tease.
