Page 62 of When Love Found Us
“I know why you do it,” she says softly. “It’s hard to remember sometimes, but I know this isn’t a prison—it’s a haven. And I appreciate you putting yourself in danger for me.”
“I’m not,” I correct immediately.
Her brow furrows. “You’re not . . .?”
“I’m not in danger, sweetheart,” I tell her. “This—what I’m doing—is something I’m trained to do.”
She lifts a brow. “You’re a tattoo artist.”
I nod, a slow smirk tugging at my lips. “Yeah, now.” I lean against the counter, watching her carefully. “But before that? Let’s just say I took a different route in college. Odd jobs here and there. Some for Sanford. Some for his friends.” I pause. “And at some point, I ended up training for The Organization.”
I tell her more about The Organization. I don’t usually talk about this. It’s not a safe topic to discuss with outsiders, but she doesn’t feel like one anymore.
I trust her.
Because she’s trusting me with her life.
“So that’s why there are so many cameras around this building?” she asks, tilting her head.
I nod.
Her gaze lingers on me, something unreadable passing through her eyes. “But you wouldn’t put yourself in danger, would you?”
The worry in her voice does something to me.
I shake my head. “Not on purpose. No.”
She studies me, her fingers absentmindedly tapping against the counter. Then, out of nowhere, she says, “You’re not what I expected, Atlas Timberbridge.”
I let out a low chuckle. “Oh, yeah? What were you expecting?”
She hums, tapping a finger to her chin, playing it up like she’s really thinking it over.
“Well,” she starts, “for starters, I figured you’d be one of those guys who broods in corners, scowls at everyone, and grunts instead of speaking in full sentences.”
I arch a brow. “You did meet me at The Honey Drop. And I had had no sleep.”
She bites back a smile. “True. You did look like you hated everyone and everything.”
“Because I did without any sleep.”
She rolls her eyes, tossing a dish towel at me. I catch it easily, grinning.
“I also assumed you’d be one of those guys who thinks cooking is just heating up whatever comes in a can.”
I smirk. “I can cook, you know.”
“Yeah, you’ve made sure to show that.”
I step closer, just enough that she has to tip her head back to meet my gaze.
“What else?” I ask, my voice lower now.
She swallows, her pulse jumping at the base of her throat.
And, fuck, I like that reaction a little too much.
“Well,” she says, her voice quieter now, “I definitely wasn’t expecting you to be good at taking care of people.”
