Page 18 of When Love Found Us
Unease settles in my chest, heavy and dreading.
Fuck.
I wasn’t even looking at her, wasn’t directing my frustration at her, but it doesn’t matter. She reacts anyway—instinctive, automatic. Like muscle memory.
I exhale, forcing my voice to level out. “Fine. I’ll figure it out and even check on the clients to make sure they’re really showing up. Thanks.” I end the conversation.
I do this for her because if not, I would’ve given him a piece of my mind.
After taking several deep breaths to calm the fuck down, I explain to Blythe how the system works, walking her through the client list, showing her how to confirm appointments for the weekend. I tell her to call everyone, make sure they’re still coming. By tomorrow, I’ll have a better system in place—one where she won’t have to make phone calls. Just texts. I also have her check the shop’s email because, apparently, we have one connected to our website. News to me.
By noon, I ask her to grab some food from the diner down the street. “Get something for yourself too.” I pull some cash from my wallet and hold it out.
Blythe hesitates.
For a second, I think she’s going to refuse. Her fingers twitch, her lips part—then she nods, takes the money, and slips out the door.
I shake off the strange energy from earlier and focus on the list of confirmed appointments. A few names stand out—ones I wasn’t expecting. Then the hotel calls. They’re fully booked. Obviously, I have to ask, ‘Why the fuck do I care,’ right? Well, apparently, everyone’s in town for me.
What the fuck?
By the time Blythe comes back, something’s off.
She’s quieter. Not in a normal, I’m-just-tired way. It’s something else. Something she’s hiding behind that carefully neutral expression she wears like armor.
I don’t ask because the less we interact the better. Caring for others is a hazard. Today we’ll eat, I’ll send her home early, and then I’ll see her tomorrow at eleven-thirty before our first appointment. Her weekends are booked now—just like mine.
And today, for once, I make an exception. Instead of heading upstairs to my apartment for lunch, I stay here.
Not because of her, because I don’t care at all. It’s just easier. This reminds me that I have to make a real schedule and figure out her meal breaks. Something I never thought I would have to do. I didn’t expect this place to actually have clients. Fuck, that frustrates me so much. It angers me that the non-plan I half-assed is officially out the window, and now I have to come up with something new.
I hate change.
Fucking hate it.
Which, yeah, makes no sense when I don’t even have a place to call home. When I don’t plan on settling. But here I am, craving structure and getting upset when it’s all falling apart.
The door swings open, and Blythe steps inside, a brown bag in one hand, a drink carrier in the other. She sets them on the counter and eyes me cautiously like she’s not sure if I’ll still be here.
I grab the bag and unwrap my food. A hamburger. Juicy, packed with bacon, exactly the sort of meal that makes this day suck a little less.
Blythe slides onto the stool across from me, pulls her food out, but barely gets settled before she bolts to the back room. Soon, the bathroom door slams, and then there’s retching. Two things happen simultaneously. One, I decided that I have to bring a contractor because we need to soundproof the bathroom. Second, my appetite vanishes.
I wait a second. Then another.
She doesn’t come out.
The next wave hits, the sound unmistakable. Well. That’s not normal. She said yesterday she wasn’t sick. I push back from the counter and stand. Then, I wait. Soon enough, she comes from the back of the shop, looking pale, exhausted.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” she answers, almost smiling, like she wasn’t just throwing up seconds ago.
This woman is good at faking being fine. She fakes it too well, and if I don’t watch her, she might lie about a lot more. I don’t care much about her history, but if there’s one thing I hate, it’s a liar. She better straighten up her story now or she’ll not only be out of this shop, I’ll have her out of this town.
I cross my arms. “Try again.”
“As I said yesterday, it’s?—-”
