Then, I head to the back room to check the security camera feed. The screen flickers, the feed still showing a black SUV idling two blocks down.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing in Birchwood Springs. But I know one thing for damn sure—Malerick isn’t running me out of here. If I leave, it’ll be because I want to. Not because he decides it’s best if I get the fuck out.

Chapter Eight

Atlas

The next morning, I unlock the shop before ten just for kicks. Who knows? Maybe some lost soul will come by and ask for a temporary tattoo.

I don’t expect Blythe to be here. But when I glance up, there she is, standing just outside, arms crossed tightly, gaze flicking toward the street like she might change her mind and walk away.

For a second, I think she will.

I hesitate before pushing the door open wider. “Thought you might bail.”

She lifts a brow, though I can see she’s trying to keep her expression neutral, but there’s something too controlled about it. Too fake. What are you hiding, Blythe?

“That would’ve been easier,” she states.

A snort escapes me. I can’t argue with that. “Yeah. Usually is.” She could’ve saved us both time, but obviously I’m not that lucky.

I lock the door behind her and nod toward the front desk. “Come on.”

No tour. No unnecessary conversation. Just a basic rundown—answering the phone, taking appointments, making sure the schedule doesn’t turn into a complete disaster. Not that anyone will be booking. I’m just trying to look the part.

She follows silently, hands clasped in front of her like she’s waiting for something. I pull up the scheduling software and start showing her the system, but the second the screen loads, my mood shifts.

I freeze.

The entire thing is loaded with appointments. Tomorrow alone, I have five. Five fucking appointments. My jaw tightens.

I didn’t book those.

Fucking Sanford.

Of course, it’s him. Nobody else has access. Well, maybe his assistant, but she wouldn’t dare. A slow exhale pushes through my nose, tight with irritation. I drag a hand down my face, shaking my head, muttering under my breath. Are these even real names?

I pull out my phone, texting him right away. His response is so simple it makes my eye twitch. It’s too fucking early on the West Coast.

So I call him.

“What the fuck do you want?” he growls.

“Are you making up appointments just to keep things entertaining?”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

Seriously, he’s going to play dumb? “Just tomorrow, I have five. How the fuck did that happen when we cancelled all my clients and I haven’t had anyone reach out to me?”