Page 15 of When Love Found Us
That’s it. No formal offer, no instructions, no expectations laid out. Just a command.
He turns, already moving toward the back room before I can respond.
“Just like that? You don’t want me to fill out an application? I need to fill forms, don’t I?” I ask, because what if I show and he doesn’t even open the place? “What about discussing my salary? Hours? Any benefits?”
“Nope. You’re on a trial basis. I don’t want to fill out paperwork if you’ll be dropping before noon,” he states, and this time, he doesn’t look back or say goodbye.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, all I feel is the unsettling certainty that Atlas Timberbridge is going to make me prove exactly how much I want this.
ChapterSeven
Atlas
AmI really contemplating hiring this . . . Blythe person?
I don’t need anyone. Never have. Usually, when I show up at whatever parlor I’m working at, the bookings are already handled, and I do my job. That’s how it works. But here? There won’t be any bookings. I mean, it’s clear that no one in their right mind will take a trip to Birchwood Springs to get a tattoo. No matter how many followers I have and how my waiting list can be lengthy.
A waiting list that, according to Sanford’s assistant has been taken care of—meaning, they either rebook with somebody at the Ink Art Gallery, the Luna Harbor Tattoo Parlor, or they canceled it. Which is fine by me. I already have a spreadsheet with all the money Sanford already owes me because of all those lost clients—asshole.
Here I have . . . well, no schedules to follow, no lists to check off. So what the hell is she supposed to do all day?
Actually, the better question is, what am I supposed to do all fucking day? Poke my eyes out just for entertainment?
I should have stayed gone. Should have ignored Sanford’s baiting. But did I? No. I let him drag me right back into this town.
And now, here I am.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I glance at the screen. Sanford’s latest post. My new shop location is tagged. The new number listed, because I now have a fucking landline.
Who the hell still has a landline?
What’s next? A fax machine, just to go all retro? Like, I’m going to let him keep dictating what I’m planning on doing here. This is mine for two years. I should double up with the post. Maybe even add a sale in there because who in their right mind will take a plane and then the back roads to come and visit me? Nobody.
A loud knock against the glass storefront pulls my attention away. It’s not a customer. Of course, it’s not. Nobody in this town is getting a tattoo. Bland, boring people with their beige lives will just snob this shop.
I ignore it, but the knock comes again.
I exhale slow and long, dragging my gaze toward the door. And there he is. Malerick Timberbridge. Fucking Malerick. The sheriff. The golden boy. Oh, and my oldest brother. The one who never makes mistakes, never strays, never does anything that isn’t perfectly aligned with the damn rules.
The last person I wanted to see today. Or ever.
“Open the fucking door, Atlas,” he calls through the glass.
I could ignore him. Turn around and head upstairs through the back room. Let him stand there, stewing in his own self-righteousness.
Of course, I don’t. I know better. Malerick doesn’t just go away.
Rolling my shoulders, I push up from the counter and unlock the door.
“What do you want?” I mutter, stepping aside just enough to let him in. The last thing I need is some screaming match out on the street.
His jaw tightens, but he steps inside anyway.
I lock the door behind him. Not because I’m worried that someone will sneak in and try to steal some body jewelry. Nope. It’s because I don’t need an audience for whatever bullshit he’s about to throw at me. People in this town? They walk into shops just to eavesdrop. Just to see what’s happening.
Malerick takes his time, scanning the space like he’s cataloging every detail, gathering evidence for some kind of case. His gaze flicks back to me.
