Page 8 of When Love Found Us
We’re not the same kind of asshole.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She shakes her head, expertly finishing my drink. “Well, I guess that’s on you.” She sets the mug in front of me with a knowing smirk. “I’ll bring your food in a few.” Then, she tilts her head toward one of the corner tables. “Actually, I might need a favor from you.”
I follow her gaze, and that’s when I see her.
She’s sitting near the window, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, staring outside like she’s waiting for something—or someone. Her dark brown hair falls over her shoulders in loose waves, a few strands tucked behind her ear. She’s wearing an old hoodie that’s seen better days, dark jeans, and scuffed brown boots.
She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t move much, but there’s a quiet tension in the way she holds herself like she’s ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.
Something clicks in my brain. She’s new. And she’s watching the door. I don’t like that I didn’t notice her the second I walked in. That’s how drained I am. Usually, I scan my surroundings the moment I step into a room. I would’ve noticed someone like her—someone who looks like she might jump out of her skin at any second. If I didn’t know better, I would think she’s escaping from someone.
“Who is she?” I ask.
Delilah sighs. “Blythe. I think that’s what she said. She was one of the passengers who arrived earlier. She’s looking for work. And a place to stay.”
I raise a brow. “And I care because . . .?”
“Because,” she says, exasperated, “you’re about to open a tattoo shop, and you’ll need help. I’m planning ahead for you.”
I scoff. “I don’t even know if I’ll get enough clients to need a receptionist.”
Sanford swears that the moment I post my new location, I’ll be fully booked. But who in their right mind is going to travel to the middle of nowhere Vermont just to get a tattoo from me?
“She’s not asking for a full-time gig,” Delilah counters, glancing at Blythe, then back at me. “Just something to get by. I’m giving her some hours, and she could use a few more from you.”
I switch my gaze toward the woman again. She hasn’t moved much. There’s a slight dip between her brows like she’s deep in thought, but her lips remain neutral—no tension, no frown. Just exhaustion. And I can tell—because I’ve been around enough people on the move—that she’s holding onto that coffee like it’s the one thing grounding her to this spot.
I exhale, dragging a hand down my face. “I don’t know, Del?—”
“Just talk to her. I have a feeling,” she states as if that should be enough.
I grumble under my breath but don’t argue. I don’t do strays, and I sure as hell don’t do favors. You start with one, and the next thing you know, people are walking all over you. Not Del, of course, but others. How do I know this woman isn’t some opportunist looking to take advantage of good people like Delilah?
“You’re a good judge of character. Go check it out for yourself. If I’m wrong . . .” Del shrugs. “We’ll just give her fare for the bus and send her on her way to Maine.”
I sigh but push off the counter, coffee in hand, making my way toward the table. The moment Blythe notices me moving in her direction, her fingers tense around the mug. Her eyes flick to the door, then to Delilah, then back to me.
She’s already calculating her escape. That alone tells me more about her than anything Del could have said. I don’t sit right away. I pull out the chair across from her but let my hand rest on the back instead, giving her space. Close enough to talk, far enough that she won’t feel trapped.
“Blythe, right?” My voice is even, careful, but I don’t miss the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.
She nods, barely perceptible.
“I’m Atlas,” I say, taking a slow sip of my coffee. “Del says you’re looking for work.”
Her throat moves as she swallows, gaze darting past me toward the door. Like she’s expecting someone to walk in at any second. Her fingers tighten around the mug, knuckles going pale.
“I—uh—yeah,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
She’s skittish. Uncertain. And despite my usual instinct to keep people at arm’s length, I know what fear looks like.
And she’s drowning in it.
“Mind if I sit?” I keep my tone light, cautious.
There’s a beat of hesitation before she gives a small nod, gesturing toward the chair. “Go ahead.”
I drop into the seat, stretching my legs out, letting the silence settle between us. Her gaze flicks toward the window again.
