Page 28 of Lady and the Butcher
A pause, just long enough for my heart to trip. “With who?”
I hesitated. Atticus’s name pressed against the inside of my mouth, heavy and impossible. But no—I couldn’t give it to him. Not when they were friends. Not when I wasn’t sure if this man standing outside my shop window was my Alpha Mail fantasy or something else entirely.
“I think … it’s the Alpha Mail guy,” I said instead. “I’m not sure.”
The silence sharpened. “Simone, are you kidding me? You’re just going to walk out with a stranger you met on the internet?”
“It’ll probably be fine,” I rushed, hating the way my voice wobbled. “I’ll have my phone. I just didn’t want you to worry if I didn’t pick up for a few hours.”
“Probably fine? That’s not?—”
“I have to go,” I cut him off, too aware of the minutes ticking away. “I’ll call you later.”
“Sim—”
I hung up. My hand shook as I set the phone on the counter, my chest tight with the sound of his alarm still echoing in my ear.
I drew in a breath, straightened my blouse, and pushed the door open again.
Atticus was exactly where I’d left him, as if he hadn’t moved an inch. His eyes found me instantly, no wandering, no delay. It was unnerving, that single-minded focus. Like there was no one else in Charleston. Just me.
“I’ll need a shower before I go anywhere,” I told him, trying for casual.
His gaze flicked down my body, slow enough to make my skin prickle. “Then take one.”
The words landed like steel—no hesitation, no question, just certainty.
10
The car door closed behind me with a sound that felt more like a lock than a click.
Black leather, cool against the back of my thighs. Windows tinted dark enough that Charleston blurred into smears of light and shadow. Atticus didn’t explain where we were going. He didn’t look at me, either. He just leaned back, one elbow resting loose on the center console, the other hand draped over his knee like he owned gravity itself.
I should’ve asked questions. Normal women did that, right?
Where are we going? How long will it take? Why the hell am I climbing into a stranger’s car in broad daylight when I have invoices sitting back on the shop counter?
But I didn’t ask.
Because the truth was, I didn’t want answers. I wanted this—this silence heavy with implication, this sense of being ferried somewhere on his terms, not mine. Every second that passed without an explanation made my pulse ratchet tighter.
I folded my hands in my lap to stop them from fidgeting. My blouse clung to me from the humidity outside, and I was very aware of how ordinary I looked. Not the woman in the dressat Stephen’s party, not the robe-draped witch under the moon. Just Simone, wrung-out doula in a work blouse and sandals, hair barely tamed into a knot.
Would he see through me now? Would the shine wear off? If there ever was shine, to begin with.
I risked a glance at him. He didn’t look bored. Didn’t look anything, really. Just … intent. His profile cut against the passing scenery—sharp nose, strong jaw, light hair cropped close, that throat inked with the cleaver I hadn’t stopped thinking about.
He didn’t need to speak. His silence was already a kind of ownership.
The car turned off Meeting Street and angled closer to the water. When the Ravenel Bridge came into view, its towers rising pale against the midday sky like a crown of steel, my chest squeezed.
The driver swung into the circle drive of a glass-fronted hotel I’d passed a dozen times, but never entered. Too sleek. Too expensive. The kind of place that catered to yacht owners and luxury-conference types who thought “downtown Charleston” meant the five-block radius with valet parking.
The car rolled to a stop under the porte cochère. The driver opened my door, but it was Atticus’s hand I noticed—offering nothing more than a slight gesture toward the entrance. Not pressure. Not command. Just inevitability.
My plain sandals clicked across the polished floor of the lobby. Gold light poured from chandeliers. A wall of glass gave way to the harbor, the bridge glittering beyond. People in cocktail dresses and dark suits lingered near the bar, their laughter a hum.
I felt like a total imposter in my dull clothes, but Atticus moved like the floor was his, like every eye that slid his waywas just confirming what he already knew—that he belonged everywhere, always.
