Page 59 of When Love Found Us
ChapterTwenty-Three
Atlas
She won.
Blythe won the whole ‘I’m cooking tonight’ argument.
Probably because I got caught up downstairs, working on my project, and didn’t realize how late it was. Creating is the only thing that pulls me out of my own head, and maybe that’s why I’ve been pouring so much time into this comic book lately. Maybe I shouldn’t be trying to finish it now, not when everything feels . . . unsettled.
Is that the right word?
Probably.
Everything’s up in the air—her husband, his people, the way we’re keeping an eye on them while my lawyer figures out how to get her divorce settled without putting her at risk. It’s going to be a challenge, but it’ll get done.
It has to get done. Though I dread that last part, because once it is . . . then what?
She’ll leave?
And I don’t want her to go.
I don’t want to think about her packing a bag and walking away, slipping back into a world where I can’t reach her.
It’ll be best if she stays. Maybe in two years, we could leave this town together. Put down roots somewhere else. Boston. Seattle. Some city where my family doesn’t exist, where there’s nothing to pull me back to a past I don’t want.
But that’s not a decision for today.
Right now . . . right now, I’m holding back.
The same way I’ve been holding back since . . . I don’t even know when my attraction for her began. Could it be from the day she showed up at my door, dripping in secrets and exhaustion, wearing defiance like armor?
I knew better than to let her stay. I knew better than to get involved.
But the second she looked at me with those wide, wary eyes—the second she flinched at my voice but still squared her shoulders like she was daring me to push her—I felt like I needed to protect her like I needed to . . . I was done for.
That was three weeks and four days ago.
And now?
Now, she’s moving around the kitchen like she belongs here. Like this life—our life—is something real. And I keep catching myself thinking about it inwe’sandoursand . . . what the fuck is wrong with me?
She’s standing at the counter, brow furrowed, completely focused on whatever complicated dish she’s making—something I don’t even recognize, something that probably has a million steps and will taste way better than the simple meals I throw together. In my defense, they’re from a pregnancy blog I found while researching morning sickness.
Blythe moves like she knows exactly what she’s doing, like cooking is something that settles her, something that makes sense in a way that nothing else does. She’s wearing one of those lounge sets she ordered against her will.
Soft fabric draped over her frame, fitting too well, like it was meant to be on her skin. The shorts show way too much leg, and I shouldn’t be noticing that.
But I do.
Like I have all the times before.
Every day, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend I don’t want to run my hands down those legs, feel her warmth under my palms, and see how she’d react if I closed the space between us.
I need to stop.
I can’t stop.
I made a mistake when we first met.
