Page 31 of The Butcher

Fleur

A week passed—and I didn’t hear from Adrien.

I hadn’t tried to submit the divorce paperwork again. I was too afraid I would be met with another rejection. And then I would have to confront him and have the same conversation I’d had a hundred times already.

I continued to work at the bar even though I wanted to cry on my apartment floor, but I had bills to pay now. I needed food and electricity and all the other essentials that I’d taken for granted when I’d married into wealth. That meant I was required to show up for my shift, regardless of the state of my mental health.

It was a quiet night at the bar. Some of the tables had occupants, but no one sat at the stools at the counter. I had no one to wait on, which meant no tips, which meant a smaller paycheck. A lot of people assumed that people who worked in hospitality in France were paid a great salary without tips, but that really wasn’t true. We’d come to ask for tips and gratuities on tabs because additional income was needed to survive in a city like this.

No one was around, so I pulled out my phone and opened our message box.

I read his last message.Let’s get a drink.

I’d rejected the invitation, and he’d brought me pancakes instead, an awfully sweet thing for someone with a dangerous reputation to do. I didn’t call off the reconciliation with Adrien because I wanted to pursue a new relationship with Bastien. I just wanted to work on myself and take baby steps. But I did miss Bastien…a lot.I hope you’re well.I shouldn’t have sent the message at all, shouldn’t interfere with his life when I was such a fucking mess, but my thumb hit send.

His dots were immediate, like he’d been on his phone when I texted.Are you well, sweetheart?His voice played in my head when I read the message, perfectly capturing his baritone and slight hint of playfulness.

I typed a message but then deleted it. Started over, trying to find a lighthearted answer instead of telling him the truth—that I’d hit rock bottom.Yes.

Don’t lie to me.

My heart started to drum like it always did when he was near, like he was right at the back of my neck, his breaths across my skin. There was something about him that made me uneasy and the most comfortable I’d ever been at the same time. I didn’t say anything, unsure how to respond to such assertiveness.

Where are you?

The bar.

His dots were long gone.

I suspected he was on his way here, that in a couple minutes, he would be the only customer at the bar. I put on a fake smile and did my best to look like everyone else, but I knew it would be impossible to do that when he was across from me. I’d quickly learned that it was easier to lie to strangers than to people you knew.

Less than ten minutes later, he walked inside, dressed in all black, his short sleeves showing all his muscles and the black ink over his thick arms, the cords down his forearms, the images of skulls and snakes and scorpions on his beautiful skin.

His eyes were on me the moment he walked in. He moved for where I stood at the bar, not taking a seat so he towered over me, his hands together when they rested on the surface that I’d just wiped down. And then he stared.

And stared and stared.

No one had ever stared at me like that, like I was all they could see.

It was hard to hold his look, to see the blue eyes that had flashed across my mind so many times in our separation, from my dreams to my waking moments. A warm sensation burned in my chest, and the longer it burned, the more it hurt. Something about this man—this stranger—elicited so much emotion in me.

He seemed to know that because he extended his palm forward, his knuckles against the counter.

I stared at the big hand that had touched me everywhere, that had carried me to his bed, that had held me when I fell asleep against his chest on the couch, that squeezed my ass in a way that made me feel possessed rather than objectified. I finallyplaced my hand in his and felt his fingers close around it and give it a nice squeeze.

It felt so nice… I couldn’t even describe it.

“Sweetheart.”

My eyes lifted to his, feeling that warmth in my chest again, falling deep into those blue eyes.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

We went toAu Pied de Cochonafter I got off work, a restaurant I’d spent a lot of time in since my divorce, the perfect place for a smoke after a long day, for a late-night meal when I didn’t have time to eat anything.

There were a few people in the restaurant, but it was mostly empty except for us and a couple other tables.

Bastien ordered a stiff drink, and I had a glass of wine and an appetizer.

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