Page 56 of The Heart We Guard
“A brother who’s savvy in tech.”
“Stalking and tracking?” I ask.
He shrugs, and I notice for the first time that he’s cut his hair and trimmed his beard. His jeans have an actual hem instead of frays. And he doesn’t smell of booze. “He finds people who are missing.”
“I wasn’t missing, though. I saw you. I left. Two totally different things.”
The air crackles between us.
Butcher reaches into his pocket and pulls out the white card. “You told me you were having our child with a note. You had to know that wouldn’t be the end of it.”
I shrug. Why couldn’t I be wearing something better than my softest pajamas? And why didn’t I think to wash my hair? I should be wearing warm and less casual for this conversation. My raspberry-colored cashmere sweater mocks me from the chair I placed it on last night.
How our places have swapped. He looks utterly together while I feel a wreck.
“You made it clear you weren’t a ‘stick-around’ kind of guy when you crept out and left that morning without a note.”
Butcher puts his hands on his hips as he looks down at his boots, which I notice have been polished. “Not my proudest moment.”
“And you didn’t exactly seem excited to see me when I showed up at the clubhouse.”
“Because I was halfway into my cups and trying to be noble ‘bout the kind of life you deserve.”
Wait.
Why am I standing here quibbling with him about how much he didn’t appear to want me around, when I know it isn’tsafefor me to be around?
“So, seeing as you went to the effort of what I am sure was an illegal enterprise that likely involved hacking the hotel to find out what room I’m in, what do you want?”
Butcher tugs on the ends of his hair. “Jesus, Greer. You really need to ask?”
I mimic him, tugging on the ends of my own hair. “Jesus, Butcher. Yes!”
“Greer,” he warns in that stern voice of his that makes my insides flip in a way that’s much nicer than how I felt ten minutes ago.
I release my hair. “Yes. I really need to ask. Be specific. You wanted nothing to do with me. You left without a note. It’s probably a good thing because everything about your life is everything I should be running away from. And yet, I give you a note that says I’m pregnant and you hunt me down. Why? You want to tell me to get an abortion? You want access? You want to make sure I’m moving far, far, away? You tell me, Butcher.”
Butcher shakes his head, then points to the small sofa next to the desk. “Sit. You shouldn’t be getting worked up.”
I roll my eyes. “If there is one thing guaranteed to make me get worked up, it’s being told by a man that I shouldn’t be getting worked up, especially when the man is the reason I am getting worked up.”
The corner of Butcher’s mouth twitches. “Just sit, Greer. You’re stressing me out. Getting so upset is bound to be bad for the baby.”
“Consuming alcohol. Taking drugs. Spending the day in a hot tub or sauna. Contact sports. Dealing with cat litter and coming in contact with the parasite toxoplasmosis.”
Butcher’s brow wrinkles. “What are you talking about?”
“Thoseare things that are bad for the baby. Apparently, so are gnarly old bikers who won’t answer a simple question. I’ll sit when you tell me why you’re here.”
He steps into my space and tips my chin with the knuckle of his index finger. “Gnarlyoldbikers?”
I sigh. “A slip of the tongue.”
“Keep it up, and I might slip my palm onto your ass, seeing as a spanking isn’t on your list of things that might hurt a baby.”
I take a breath, then another. His eyes are on me the whole time. The gold in them crackles. So does the air between us. “Why are you here?” I ask quietly.
He takes hold of my hand, then leads me to the sofa, and we both sit so close to each other, our knees are touching. It’s hard to not lean into the solid warmth of his thigh.
