Page 58 of When Love Found Us
“Can I help you?” he asks without looking up.
“Just wondering what we’re supposed to do today since there aren’t any clients scheduled,” I say, watching him carefully.
“You have the day off,” he states.
“That’s what I thought, but you’re here.”
Atlas arches a brow. “I’m not working.”
I shoot him a look. “Then what do you call this?”
“Just finishing something.”
I step closer, peering over his shoulder. “That’s a comic book. Are you?—”
His gaze flicks to me, amusement tugging at his lips. “You are nosy.”
I cross my arms, hoping he’ll tell me why he’s doing that, but nothing. Then I just add, “No, I’m probably bored, and if we’re not working today, I might head to The Honey Drop.”
“But not to work, right?” He gives me a suspicious look.
“No, I already quit,” I remind him. “Though I could have used those hours.”
“You need me to increase your salary?” he dares to ask.
I gape at him. What is it with this man and just throwing money at me like he has too much? I should ask where he’s getting it from because, let’s be honest, he’s starting a business, and that should’ve cost him a lot.
“No, of course not. You’re paying me too much as it is.”
“That’s not true,” he states. “You’re doing the work of two people. If anything, I should be paying you more.”
“You make it up with the room, board, and insurance,” I remind him. “I’m pretty sure nobody else has housing as a benefit.”
He scoffs. “My shop, my decisions. Plus, we both know you need them.”
There’s no argument about that, I doneedthem, but he’s giving me too much. And I’m not just talking about the salary and benefits. I’m talking about the attention. The way he cares for me . . .
The way he sees me.
The way he notices when I’m tired before I admit it. The way he makes sure I eat, drink, rest, like I’m something worth taking care of.
The way he watches me—like I’m important. Like I matter.
It’s the way he lingers in my space, filling the quiet without saying a word. The way his voice wraps around me, pulling at something deep in my stomach. The way his touch—even the briefest brush of his fingers against my back—leaves a trail of warmth long after he’s gone.
It’s not just comfort.
It’s something deeper. Something I shouldn’t want because . . . well, the reasons are many, but the biggest one is that soon, I’ll have to let that go.
I don’t know how I’ll deal with that.
But I know this—when I look back, he’ll be one of the best memories.
And that might be the worst part of all. Because memories don’t hold you at night. They don’t make your pulse stutter with a look. They don’t stand too close, smelling like soap and something undeniably him, making it impossible to breathe.
But he does.
And I don’t know how I’ll ever forget that.
