Page 30 of When Love Found Us
“Oh, you can leave.”
Blythe turns at the sound of the voice.
Delilah leans against the doorway, arms crossed, amusement clear in her eyes. Apparently, she’s been watching us for quite some time, and I didn’t even notice. “We’re covered. Mom should be here soon.”
Blythe’s mouth opens, then closes.
I take her silence for what it is—defeat.
“Let’s go,” I say, tossing her apron onto the counter. “My truck is on the other side of the street.”
She mutters something under her breath but follows me out the door. The drive to the Birchwood Springs Medical Clinic is quiet—I’m thankful that she doesn’t ask about my brothers or our dynamic. It’s too complicated.
She’s curled against the passenger door, hood pulled up, gaze fixed on the window like she’s committing every turn to memory. Like she’s planning an exit before she even knows the layout of the room. Hopefully, one day, she won’t feel the need to map out her escape routes every second of the day.
I keep my grip loose on the wheel, attention split between the road and my mirrors. No tails. No cars out of place.
Good.
I don’t expect anyone to track her this easily. She hasn’t been here long, and this town is as remote as it gets. You forget about this place unless you’re in desperate need of maple syrup. I’m counting on that to buy us time. Enough to set up the safeguards she needs, to keep an eye on anyone who comes sniffing around where they shouldn’t.
The clinic comes into view, an old building tucked between the post office and a hardware store. I park, kill the engine. Blythe doesn’t move.
She stares at the dashboard, her jaw tight, her fingers curled into the cuffs of her sleeves.
“Are you sure this is safe?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it. A warning. “Maybe we should come another day.”
“I promise it is fine, Blythe.” I shift in my seat to face her. “You need to start prenatal care. And maybe . . . we need to confirm that you’re pregnant. What if you’re sick? What if it’s something else?”
Her throat moves as she swallows, the first crack in her resolve. She stays silent for a beat too long, like she’s running through every worst-case scenario in her head.
Then, finally, she exhales. “Fine. I’ll do this. But afterward, you’re telling me why she hates your family.”
She pushes open the door before I can answer, and I follow her inside.
Nothing has changed in this place. Same outdated wallpaper curling at the edges, same row of dining-room chairs that look like they were scavenged from an estate sale. The couch in the corner might be new, or maybe they just had it reupholstered. Either way, the place still smells faintly of chlorine, antiseptic and lavender.
The receptionist glances up, recognition flashing in her eyes before she schools her expression. “Atlas Timberbridge. It’s been a while. I had no idea you were in town. That’s . . . you’ve always known how to be discreet, unlike your brothers.”
I smile and shrug a shoulder. “Blythe has an appointment.”
“The doctor is with another patient, but Lydia can take her vitals and bring her back now.”
A nurse steps out from the side door—mid-forties, practical haircut, kind eyes. I’ve never seen her before.
“Come on back, Mrs. Timberbridge. Let’s check on that little one.”
Blythe freezes.
Her eyes go wide, snapping to mine, full of confusion and barely masked fury.
Fuck.
I lean in, lowering my voice like a doting husband. “Babe, they’re waiting for you.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to Sanford’s plan. Or maybe I should’ve, I don’t know, told her about it first.
One of the guys created a new identity for Blythe, complete with my last name, a fake marriage certificate, credit cards, even a passport—just in case we need to get her out of the country fast.
