Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Atlas
I should’ve flown and had my SUV shipped instead of driving from Seattle in three grueling days.
Should I have stopped in Buffalo instead of pushing straight from Minneapolis to Birchwood Springs?
Probably. But what’s done is done.
I’m here.
Though, to be perfectly honest, it’s early.
Too fucking early for someone who’s been driving all night.
My plans for today are having some coffee and breakfast and then heading to the old house for a nap.
I might need to stay there temporarily while I find something more suitable.
An apartment, a home.
Sanford mentioned something about a studio or .
. . I really can’t remember what he said about the place above the tattoo parlor.
Sure, I designed the interior, but he’s the one who bought the ‘small building,’ as he called it, and paid a stupid amount of money to have everything done in less than two months.
Who does that? A bored musician with too much time and money on his hands, that’s who.
Maybe I’ll check if the upstairs can act like an apartment.
In the meantime, I’ll have to deal with my brothers.
Though, if Ledger so much as hints that I’m not welcome in our childhood home, I swear I’ll punch him so hard he won’t be waking up anytime soon.
The bell above the door chimes as I push into The Honey Drop, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee mixed with something sweet—cinnamon, maybe—wraps around me.
A few locals are scattered throughout the café, murmuring in low voices over their steaming cups.
I drag a hand over my face, exhaustion digging into my bones.
I’m running on fumes, but at least I made it in one piece.
Behind the counter, Delilah is cleaning the espresso machine when she glances up and smirks.
“Well, well. Look who’s here. Mr. I’m Never Coming Back Again.”
I grunt.
“Miss me?”
“Like a hole in the head.” She grabs a mug without missing a beat.
“What would you like? Whatever it is, I’m guessing it needs extra caffeine. You look like shit. Did you even sleep?”
“Just black coffee. A few extra shots of espresso.” I roll my shoulders, exhaustion settling in.
“Nothing frothy today. And whatever you’ve got that’s solid—an egg sandwich, maybe?”
“You got it.” Delilah wipes her hands on a rag before tossing me a look.
“So . . . a tattoo parlor, huh?”
I glare at her.
No one should know about that yet.
“How do you know? Did Nysa tell everyone?”
“Calm down. It’s not like she put up a billboard.” She shrugs, reaching for a mug.
“We were having dinner last Monday, and she mentioned it.”
“To whom?” I press because while I love my best friend, since she came back to Birchwood, she seems to have forgotten the meaning of the word secret.
I should give her a fucking dictionary for her birthday.
I miss when things stayed between the two of us.
Now, she tells Hopper everything because they’re a couple.
And then there are her friends, and since when does she need more people in her circle?
“It was just Gale and me,” Delilah cuts in, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
“But she told Hopper, didn’t she?”
She waves a hand.
“Does it matter?”
I sigh, knowing there’s no point in arguing.
“Whatever. I guess it’s back to the old gossip mill. Can I just get my caffeine?”
“We’re moodier than usual,” she teases, pouring the espresso shots into my coffee.
“You Timberbridges are always grumpy for one thing or another. Unless . . . you’re getting laid. That’s when you’re all smiles and shit. How’s Keir, by the way?”
“I’ve been driving for almost twenty-four hours.” I ignore her question about my other brother, the one I hope I don’t have to ever see, and the fact that she lumped me in with the others.
We’re not the same kind of asshole.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She shakes her head, expertly finishing my drink.
“Well, I guess that’s on you.” She sets the mug in front of me with a knowing smirk.
“I’ll bring your food in a few.” Then, she tilts her head toward one of the corner tables.
“Actually, I might need a favor from you.”
I follow her gaze, and that’s when I see her.
She’s sitting near the window, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, staring outside like she’s waiting for something—or someone.
Her dark brown hair falls over her shoulders in loose waves, a few strands tucked behind her ear.
She’s wearing an old hoodie that’s seen better days, dark jeans, and scuffed brown boots.
She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t move much, but there’s a quiet tension in the way she holds herself like she’s ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.
Something clicks in my brain.
She’s new. And she’s watching the door.
I don’t like that I didn’t notice her the second I walked in.
That’s how drained I am.
Usually, I scan my surroundings the moment I step into a room.
I would’ve noticed someone like her—someone who looks like she might jump out of her skin at any second.
If I didn’t know better, I would think she’s escaping from someone.
“Who is she?” I ask.
Delilah sighs. “Blythe. I think that’s what she said. She was one of the passengers who arrived earlier. She’s looking for work. And a place to stay.”
I raise a brow.
“And I care because . . .?”
“Because,” she says, exasperated, “you’re about to open a tattoo shop, and you’ll need help. I’m planning ahead for you.”
I scoff.
“I don’t even know if I’ll get enough clients to need a receptionist.”
Sanford swears that the moment I post my new location, I’ll be fully booked.
But who in their right mind is going to travel to the middle of nowhere Vermont just to get a tattoo from me?
“She’s not asking for a full-time gig,” Delilah counters, glancing at Blythe, then back at me.
“Just something to get by. I’m giving her some hours, and she could use a few more from you.”
I switch my gaze toward the woman again.
She hasn’t moved much.
There’s a slight dip between her brows like she’s deep in thought, but her lips remain neutral—no tension, no frown.
Just exhaustion. And I can tell—because I’ve been around enough people on the move—that she’s holding onto that coffee like it’s the one thing grounding her to this spot.
I exhale, dragging a hand down my face.
“I don’t know, Del?—”
“Just talk to her. I have a feeling,” she states as if that should be enough.
I grumble under my breath but don’t argue.
I don’t do strays, and I sure as hell don’t do favors.
You start with one, and the next thing you know, people are walking all over you.
Not Del, of course, but others.
How do I know this woman isn’t some opportunist looking to take advantage of good people like Delilah?
“You’re a good judge of character. Go check it out for yourself. If I’m wrong . . .” Del shrugs.
“We’ll just give her fare for the bus and send her on her way to Maine.”
I sigh but push off the counter, coffee in hand, making my way toward the table.
The moment Blythe notices me moving in her direction, her fingers tense around the mug.
Her eyes flick to the door, then to Delilah, then back to me.
She’s already calculating her escape.
That alone tells me more about her than anything Del could have said.
I don’t sit right away.
I pull out the chair across from her but let my hand rest on the back instead, giving her space.
Close enough to talk, far enough that she won’t feel trapped.
“Blythe, right?” My voice is even, careful, but I don’t miss the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.
She nods, barely perceptible.
“I’m Atlas,” I say, taking a slow sip of my coffee.
“Del says you’re looking for work.”
Her throat moves as she swallows, gaze darting past me toward the door.
Like she’s expecting someone to walk in at any second.
Her fingers tighten around the mug, knuckles going pale.
“I—uh—yeah,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
She’s skittish. Uncertain.
And despite my usual instinct to keep people at arm’s length, I know what fear looks like.
And she’s drowning in it.
“Mind if I sit?” I keep my tone light, cautious.
There’s a beat of hesitation before she gives a small nod, gesturing toward the chair.
“Go ahead.”
I drop into the seat, stretching my legs out, letting the silence settle between us.
Her gaze flicks toward the window again.
“You expecting someone?” I ask.
Her attention snaps back to me, her expression shifting.
“No.”
It’s either a lie, or she’s watching her back, making sure no one sees her.
“So, what kind of job are you looking for?”
“Anything,” she says quickly.
Then, with a small, almost imperceptible shrug, “I’m good with people. I can clean. Run errands. I’m a fast learner. I would take anything. I just need something consistent, even if it’s not full-time.”
I nod slowly, taking her in.
She sounds a little desperate.
“Where are you staying?”
“Umm . . .” Her fingers trace the rim of her mug.
“Why do you assume I don’t have an address already?”
I scoff.
“Sweetheart, you’re in Birchwood Springs. People know everything about you before you step on the sidewalk for the first time.”
She sighs.
“I need to check the hotel. I didn’t see a motel on my way in. Is that a problem?”
Before I can respond, Delilah approaches with a plate, setting it down in front of me with a soft clink.
The scent of eggs and bacon drifts up, warm and savory.
But the second it hits Blythe, her face pales.
Her chair scrapes back suddenly, and before I can react, she bolts.
Not toward the door.
Toward the trash can.
She barely makes it before doubling over, one hand bracing against the counter as she empties her stomach.
Delilah and I exchange a glance.
I don’t know what the hell I just walked into, but something tells me I’m about to find out.
“What was that?” I ask, eyes moving toward Blythe, who’s still hunched over the trash can.
Delilah sighs, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I don’t know, but I probably need to help her.” She scans the café, then turns back to me.
“Can you take over until Mom gets here? She shouldn’t be long.”
“Delilah, I can’t make lattes even if my life depends on it.”
She smirks.
“Then don’t. If anyone approaches the counter, just give them pastries on the house and drip coffee if they’re desperate.”
Before I can argue, she’s already moving, crossing the café toward Blythe.
With a gentle hand on her back, she murmurs something too quiet for me to hear.
Blythe nods weakly, and a second later, Delilah is leading her toward the door.
With a sigh, I glance at the counter—pastries and drip coffee—I can manage that. Probably.