Page 17 of When Love Found Us
Then, I head to the back room to check the security camera feed. The screen flickers, the feed still showing a black SUV idling two blocks down.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing in Birchwood Springs. But I know one thing for damn sure—Malerick isn’t running me out of here. If I leave, it’ll be because I want to. Not because he decides it’s best if I get the fuck out.
ChapterEight
Atlas
The next morning,I unlock the shop before ten just for kicks. Who knows? Maybe some lost soul will come by and ask for a temporary tattoo.
I don’t expect Blythe to be here. But when I glance up, there she is, standing just outside, arms crossed tightly, gaze flicking toward the street like she might change her mind and walk away.
For a second, I think she will.
I hesitate before pushing the door open wider. “Thought you might bail.”
She lifts a brow, though I can see she’s trying to keep her expression neutral, but there’s something too controlled about it. Too fake. What are you hiding, Blythe?
“That would’ve been easier,” she states.
A snort escapes me. I can’t argue with that. “Yeah. Usually is.” She could’ve saved us both time, but obviously I’m not that lucky.
I lock the door behind her and nod toward the front desk. “Come on.”
No tour. No unnecessary conversation. Just a basic rundown—answering the phone, taking appointments, making sure the schedule doesn’t turn into a complete disaster. Not that anyone will be booking. I’m just trying to look the part.
She follows silently, hands clasped in front of her like she’s waiting for something. I pull up the scheduling software and start showing her the system, but the second the screen loads, my mood shifts.
I freeze.
The entire thing is loaded with appointments. Tomorrow alone, I have five. Five fucking appointments. My jaw tightens.
I didn’t book those.
Fucking Sanford.
Of course, it’s him. Nobody else has access. Well, maybe his assistant, but she wouldn’t dare. A slow exhale pushes through my nose, tight with irritation. I drag a hand down my face, shaking my head, muttering under my breath. Are these even real names?
I pull out my phone, texting him right away. His response is so simple it makes my eye twitch. It’s too fucking early on the West Coast.
So I call him.
“What the fuck do you want?” he growls.
“Are you making up appointments just to keep things entertaining?”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
Seriously, he’s going to play dumb? “Just tomorrow, I have five. How the fuck did that happen when we cancelled all my clients and I haven’t had anyone reach out to me?”
“Well, we kindly called everyone who had booked you for the next nine months and let them know your new location. Most of them chose to reschedule at your new location—that’s why your weekends are full for the next several months.” His ‘let me dumb this down to your level’ tone is annoying. “What? You thought you’d be sitting on your ass? Like I’d let you. You have to make me money.”
“You could’ve given me a heads-up,” I growl, maybe a little too loud, because my voice carries through the shop. My fingers tighten around the phone, pulse kicking up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Blythe shift.
Not much. Barely noticeable. But I catch it.
She stiffens, fingers curling around the hem of her sleeve, knuckles white. Like she’s bracing for something. No. It’s more like she’s used to bracing, waiting for someone to hit her.
