Chapter 3
Chapter three
Atlas
Tears burned the back of my throat as I hurried down the sidewalk toward home. I’d thought Miles had been into me, had wanted to keep our conversation going, but then he’d frozen up. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong, and I hated that I felt this way.
I hated that I’d even entertained the thought that it was something I did.
Logically, I knew Miles would’ve asked me out if he wanted to and the fact that he didn’t had nothing to do with me. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was my fault.
In the twenty years since I’d left Gomillion, I’d done everything I could to bolster my self-confidence.
High school had been rough, but as I’d grown into my gender identity, embraced and started celebrating being transgender and, more specifically, genderfluid, I’d discovered myself and owned it.
I’d gotten to a really good place, taking on the corporate and dating worlds and crushing them both.
But this past year had shaken me, and everything was different now. I was different—less confident, unsure. I didn’t feel like myself, and that was unsettling, to say the least.
Unlocking the front door to my cute but tiny rental home, I stumbled inside, closing the door behind me and dropping onto my davenport, my designer handbag still slung across my chest. Tears threatened again, but I sniffed and swiped them away as the events of the last year flew into my brain without my permission.
The downfall of my business had started slow at first. A few clients here and there moving to another firm wasn’t enough to raise any red flags.
Then we started hearing through the grapevine that another firm was talking shit about our work.
It was unfounded, of course, but before we even had a chance to react, our reputation had tanked, and the damage was done.
I’d paid off my business start-up loans a decade ago, so when I realized the firm was going under, as heartbreaking as it was, I knew I’d come out mostly unscathed.
Financially, anyway. I absolutely loathed being the bearer of bad news—I was as sunshiny as they came in a city known for its rain—so having to look each one of my friends, my work family, in the eye and tell them I was dissolving the firm nearly broke me.
When I couldn’t sleep just hours before I had to deliver the bad news to my staff, Anson had run over to my exquisitely appointed apartment in the middle of the night so I had someone to give me a hug or a hundred.
He was holding my hand as I made the decision to sell over half of my very expensive wardrobe on a resale app to make ends meet.
And after I’d given a good portion of my savings to a few staff members who were struggling to find replacement jobs before their bills came due, Anson’s loans had helped me stay afloat.
I swore before I left that I’d pay him back as soon as I was able, but I could see in his eyes that he knew that wasn’t likely to happen soon. Not on my current salary.
He wasn’t wrong.
After my business—my own blood, sweat, and tears—was officially shut down and a period of serious mourning, I’d started trying to rebuild my career.
At first, I’d reached out to my contacts in the industry, even set up a few coffees and lunches, and though people were sympathetic, no one had a job open for me.
Soon, I widened the net until I was desperate for almost anything.
No one was hiring except that firm. I still had enough self-respect not to go there. Anywhere but there.
At some of those meetups, a few of my more loyal colleagues had shared insight into what had been going on behind the scenes, why I’d been so blindsided.
Basically, a man named Jon Hosier had moved into the city and started undercutting the established firms, effectively stealing projects and subsequently all of our clients out from under our noses by outbidding us.
Unfortunately, my firm had fared the worst—most of the firms had either avoided his cutthroat agenda or caught on to what he was doing soon enough to stop him and hold on to their business.
I’d been hit first and hit the hardest, and I’d paid for it.
How the fuck could I have been so stupid?
I’d prided myself on being a savvy entrepreneur and a kind and fair boss, and I liked to believe all my employees would’ve said the same. I’d checked in on all of them before I left town, and they’d all landed on their feet.
Me? Well, I supposed the fact that I was back in my hometown distraught because a cute guy hadn’t asked me out and about to start a job I was entirely overqualified for sort of said it all, right?
This was a new low.
My phone dinged with a notification, and I dug it out of the pocket of my skintight jeans to check it. Shit. Miles had messaged me.
It was on the task app I’d hired him on, but still.
I’m sorry about what just happened. Can I come over to talk?
A few seconds later, another text came in.
I still need to fix your internet.
Fuck, he did. And if he was the only handyman around here like he said, he was my only option.
With a sigh, I messaged him back. That’s fine. Are you able to come now? I need to run a few errands, but we can chat and do the internet thing first if that works for you.
Absolutely came his reply almost instantly. I’ll be there in five.
I went to wash my face and put my bag away while I waited. And exactly five minutes later, a knock sounded at my front door. Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders, crossed the room, and opened it.
Miles Johnson was just as breathtaking as I’d remembered him from earlier.
He was fit and muscular, taller and bigger than me—which was a major yes-fucking-please—and his hair would feel amazing between my fingers when he took it down.
His beard would feel even better scratching against my thighs and between my cheeks.
And I’d bet those massive, veiny hands could map my body like they owned it, could make me see stars, constellations, full galaxies of pleasure.
But none of that was as compelling as his eyes. Deep brown and soulful with a sadness in them I wanted to soothe, Miles’s eyes told me the story of his life, played out in the flecks of gold and swirls of mocha in his irises.
I hadn’t really paid attention to him in high school.
I vaguely remembered him from classes we’d had together over the years—we’d both grown up here, and Gomillion wasn’t big—but he’d never really caught my eye.
Jocks weren’t my favorite people back then; Miles had never bullied me, but some of the other guys on his football team had sent less-than-kind comments my way.
Or maybe it was the swim team? Wasn’t he on that, too?
Now that I thought about it, I recalled Miles working on the sets for the spring play our senior year—and possibly more prior to that. He’d been quiet and shy, barely speaking unless he needed to. Had he been lonely? Was that when his sadness started? Was that why he kept to himself?
I stepped aside a second too late to let him in, and for a moment, we stood in the entryway—which was just a corner of my living room, to be honest—and stared at each other.
God, those eyes. I wanted to drown in them. I wanted to ease the pain I saw in their depths.
I wasn’t sure what to do with that. I was perfectly content with dating and occasional kink scenes, and I had no indication that Miles was even into anything I was. And yet I felt drawn to him, like something magnetic was calling me closer, beckoning me deeper.
Clearing my throat, I shoved down the disquieting thought to consider later then glanced up at him. “Thanks for coming. For, you know, my internet.”
His mouth quirked up, seemingly despite itself, and I had to bite back my own smile. “I couldn’t leave you hanging like that.”
At his words, our expressions turned serious in unison, and tension sparked between us. I was going to let him talk. I’d made what turned out to be an incorrect assumption, so I was going to let him lead this conversation. I wasn’t assuming again.
“Atlas, I . . .” He crossed his arms over his chest, highlighting just how tight his black T-shirt was. Not what I should be focusing on right now, I knew that, but it was right at eye level. Sue me.
When he didn’t speak again, I decided to try to calm him down. I figured it couldn’t hurt. “Take your time.”
His shoulders lost a bit of their tension at that, and as he nodded, my heart thudded in my chest. This man was pinging all my Daddy instincts, and I hoped I would get the chance to explore that further.
But I was getting ahead of myself. He could only be here to hook up my internet and leave. I had no guarantee that he was interested in me.
Patience. Let the man speak.
“Thanks, I . . . I’m sorry for what happened back there.”
His shoulders heaved before he tried again. And it seemed the third time was the charm, because the words seemed to tumble out of him without stopping.
“You assumed correctly, actually. I should’ve just agreed to stay with you, bought you more coffee and a pastry, gotten to know you.
Because, Atlas, I would’ve loved nothing more than to ask you out.
You are a beautiful and gorgeous ma—wait, what terms do you prefer?
Did I ask that wrong? Shit—was that insensitive?
” He took a breath, halting his admittedly adorable babbling.
But wait . . . what was he saying? “Please forgive me if this is rude, but can I ask what your pronouns are?”
My heart leapt. No. Way. When was the last time someone asked me that without knowing my backstory?
I couldn’t remember, and that realization lit a small flame in my chest, warming me up.
“Of course you can, thank you. And it’s not rude at all—it’s welcome, actually.
” I smiled at him. “Right now, it’s he/him. ”
His eyebrows jumped. “Right now?”