Page 67 of Lady and the Butcher
Heat rolled through me again.
“What are your rules for me?” he asked back.
“Don’t move pieces in my life without telling me first,” I said. “If you spend money on my world, you let me see the numbers. If I say stop, you stop. And if Stephen gets loud, you don’t bare your teeth at him.”
“I didn’t,” he said, amused. “And I’ve known him for years. I can handle his bark.”
“Good. You don’t have to like him every minute,” I said. “I respect that you’re his friend. You respect that he’s my brother. I love him.”
He nodded once. Agreement. Not performance.
We fell quiet. I watched the boat lights stitch across the water. He smoothed my hair, gentle, then tugged it once the way he knew would make my breath catch. The simplicity of the move did more to my chest than the hunger did. It meant he remembered. He paid attention.
“Tell me about your mother,” he said.
“You met her. Briefly. At Stephen’s party,” I said, and his mouth tipped like he remembered. “Francine Rogers will like you while telling me you make her nervous. She’ll bring you pie and stare at your hands like they can fix her dryer and the state of the world. She’ll turn you into a parable.”
“I don’t audition for mothers,” he said.
“You already did,” I said. “You just didn’t know it.”
My eyes flicked to the side of his neck, the one that caught light when he turned just so. The cleaver inked there often disappeared into shadow, but once you noticed it, you couldn’t unsee it. Some people missed it. My mother wouldn’t. She’d spot it from a mile away and call it what it was—scary.
He groaned and rolled onto his back. I followed.
I had the sudden urge to sprawl across him like a cat who had claimed a sunspot. I did. He took it as his due.
After a while, he slid out from under me and stood, all long lines and quiet strength. He padded to the kitchen and cameback with more water and a peach cut with the same precision he brought to everything. He fed me a slice. The juice dripped on his fingers and I took that, too, a slow suck that made his jaw flex and my stomach flip. His eyes went darker. He let me finish the peach in small pieces, controlling the pace with his gaze.
“Shower again,” he said at last. “Then we keep going.”
“I can’t,” I said, though I wanted to. “Not yet. My legs are on strike.”
He laughed under his breath. “Good,” he said. “Learn to ask for ten minutes.”
“I’ll ask for twenty,” I said.
“You get fifteen.”
We bargained without malice. It felt like flirting and a life skill.
In the shower, I leaned my head against the tile and let the water beat the last of the adrenaline out of places the night had stored it. I watched steam write soft messages on the glass and thought of how I had written a letter for one night and ended up with a man who bought my shop a net and then laid me down like I was made of something he had never broken and didn’t intend to start.
Was I incredibly fortunate, or what?
When I came out, he was at the window again, one hand on the glass. He turned when he heard me. The look he gave me was a second wave. My legs didn’t care what I had promised. They went soft again.
“You keep asking what I do,” he said as I crossed to him. “Here is part of the answer. I hold the line. I set the pace. I take the hit so the people who are mine don’t have to.”
We were making progress, little by little.
“I’m not cargo,” I said.
He looked offended. “I didn’t say you were. You’re a partner. I don’t put partners in boxes. I put them where they can see the board.”
“Show me the board,” I said, bold because he had just ruined and remade me.
“I will,” he said. “Piece by piece.”
