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.

Chapter Four

Atlas

Thank fuck Del’s mom showed up only five minutes after I was left alone. I didn’t have to do much—just offered a few free pastries and poured some coffee. The moment I was free, I downed the rest of mine, finished my sandwich—I needed something in my stomach—and drove straight to my brand-new tattoo parlor.

Now, standing on the sidewalk, I take in the three-story building in front of me. It’s a fucking building—not what I expected.

I stare at it like it belongs to someone else, like it’s something I don’t quite know how to handle. The dark brickwork is clean, and the windows are large, reflecting the overcast sky above. I thought it would be smaller, maybe even a fixer-upper—something that would give me an easy reason to walk away if I wanted to.

Instead, it’s perfect.

Too perfect.

I turn the keys over in my palm. I could get back in my SUV right now. Drive out of town. Find a different shop, a different life. Nothing is forcing me to stay.