Page 13 of When Love Found Us
Delilah chuckles. “Mal? He’s got a soft spot under all that seriousness. Don’t let him intimidate you.”
I hesitate. “I appreciate the offer, but?—”
“You need help and staying at the hotel is going to cost you more than what we will pay you,” she cuts me off. “I’d offer you my place, but trust me, my mother is not the best roommate in the world. And yes, you guessed it, I live with my mother. Don’t judge.”
“I wouldn’t judge,” I say with a shrug.
“Oh, good,” Delilah says with mock relief. “But just so you know, I didn’t move in with her—she moved in with me. I left town for college, worked in a bunch of places, and when I finally came back and bought my house . . . Guess who suddenly decided hers needed a complete renovation?”
“Your mom?”
“Bingo.” She groans. “It’s been almost two years, and the place is still under construction. Meanwhile, my kitchen is bright yellow, and she’s swapped out the curtains about eight times because, apparently, they need to change with the season.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“It’s funny until it’s your life,” she mutters, but there’s a grin behind it. “Anyway, keep Gale’s offer in mind. You can only make so much here or with Atlas—the guy’s just getting started. And the hotels? They’re so expensive because they cater to tourists who buy maple syrup by the gallon or show up for the festivals.”
I don’t reply. Just focus on refilling the pastry display.
Because the truth is, I don’t know what to think of any of them—Delilah, Gale, even Atlas.
Accepting help feels dangerous. Like stepping onto unstable ground.
What if they ask too many questions?
What if they figure out what I’m running from?
What if the money Winston offers is good enough to make them turn me in?
ChapterSix
Henrietta (Blythe)
You can always tellwhen a man is dangerous.
It’s not just his size or the way he moves—though sometimes, that plays a role. It’s in his presence, the sort that makes you instinctively measure the distance between yourself and the door, the space between his body and yours. It’s in the way he watches, calculating, silent, waiting to see what you’ll do before he makes his move.
That’s the first thing I think when I meet Atlas Timberbridgeproperly.Yesterday doesn’t count. It can’t. I was feeling exhausted, puking in the trashcan . . . it was a bad moment. Today, though . . . I’m not sure if coming to his shop was a good idea.
When I enter, he doesn’t just look at me. He dissects me. And just like that, I know I should have never stepped foot in this place, maybe not even the town.
Something just doesn’t add up. People are just too nice. This tattoo parlor is too new. The scent of fresh paint and something woodsy—him—lingers in the air, wrapping around me in a way that’s almost suffocating. There’s nothing warm or inviting about it. No signs of comfort. No clutter. No imperfections. Just sleek efficiency and an unsettling level of control.
Atlas looks like a man who has spent his whole life perfecting that control. After Winston, that’s the last thing I want to deal with. Someone to tell me how my clothes have to be aligned perfectly. The shoes placed in boxes that have to be stacked in a certain order. Towels . . . everything had to be methodically folded to precise dimensions, edges perfectly aligned, colors arranged in a gradient that made no difference to anyone but him. Plates had to be centered on the table, silverware set at exact angles, and glasses filled to the same level. Even my own reflection wasn’t mine to control—he dictated what I wore, how I styled my hair, and which shades of lipstick were appropriate for a wife of his status.
Winston didn’t just want order. He wanted obedience. He wanted possession.
Standing here now, in this shop that feels too pristine, too . . . perfect, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve walked straight into another cage—one I won’t escape so easily this time. Maybe I should turn around and never come back, but what if I’m wrong? I need this.
Atlas Timberbridge stands behind the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, completely still. But not in the way of a man at ease—in the way of someone who doesn’t waste movement. Someone who only reacts when necessary. His presence fills the space, not because he tries to command it, but because he exists with the quiet confidence of a man who’s never needed to prove himself.
His gaze moves over me, assessing, but not with curiosity or interest. It’s clinical and efficient—like he’s cataloging details, filing them away for later. Like he had a computer inside his head and was running a background check.
This guy is really something—why didn’t I notice him yesterday? I was too tired and overwhelmed. If I had, I would’ve just avoided coming over.
He’s not only dangerous, he’s also too attractive. I mean, look at him. His jawline is strong, framed by just enough scruff to add to his ruggedness, but not in a careless way. His cheekbones cut clean lines, casting subtle shadows over the angles of his face. They frame the intensity in his features, contrasting with the fullness of his lips. But it’s his eyes that hit the hardest.
Ice-blue.
