“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.