Page 15 of Lady and the Butcher
6
Before long, Stephen wandered off—something about a round of shots with Max and Milo—and it was just Atticus and me.
He didn’t move closer, not really. He didn’t have to. That stare of his was a physical thing, heat and gravity braided together, like standing too near the edge of a summer storm. The slow jazz under the oaks seemed to dim around us. My sparkling rosé felt suddenly too sweet, too warm in my hand.
Mercy.
I did the thing I always do when I’m nervous: I opened my mouth and let the jokes march out.
“So,” I said, twirling the stem of my glass like I was auditioning to be Femme Fatale Number Three in a B-movie, “you’re allegedly a friend of my brother’s, and yet I’ve never seen you at one of these family circuses. Were you in witness protection or something?”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile—more like an assessment he enjoyed making. “Maybe,” he said, voice low, the kind of low that slid under your skin and unbuttoned things without asking. “Maybe, I just pick my moments.”
The air between us tugged. A small, traitorous shiver ran down my spine. I swallowed and tried for breezy.
“You’re staring,” I said, aiming for bored and landing on breathless.
“I am,” he agreed.
Zero shame. All certainty.
“You always stare at women like they’re an equation to solve?”
“Only when the math is worth it.” His gaze traced the neckline of my dress, then returned to my eyes. “You look like trouble.”
I put a hand to my chest in mock offense. “Me? I’m a doula. I bring life into the world. I am the opposite of trouble.”
“That’s not what I see.” His eyes flicked down again, unbearably slow. “What I see makes me think … trouble.”
Heat crept up my throat, traitorously pleased. I took a sip to buy myself enough time to come up with a retort that wasn’truin me then.
“Do you say that about all women,” I managed, “or am I special?”
“Special,” he said without hesitation. “Definitely special, Lady.”
I blinked, pulse stuttering.Lady. The word landed with a jolt, sliding right into the groove carved by those texts. It should’ve sounded old-fashioned or condescending. From him, it felt like a touch.
“Lady?” I echoed.
“That’s your name now.” His tone suggested this was not a democracy. “Until I come up with something better.”
Wait. Could this be the guy?
No. Surely not. That’s?—
Before I could decide whether to be outraged or aroused, Stephen materialized again, cheeks a little flushed, twobourbons in hand and a grin he tried to school into something brotherly.
“Everything good over here?” he asked, splitting his attention between Atticus and me as if he’d walked into a room where he’d left a lit candle.
“Peachy,” I said, tipping my glass toward him. “Your friend was just telling me I look like trouble.”
Stephen coughed into a laugh. “Yeah, well. He’s not wrong.” He passed one bourbon to Atticus. “Darla says tell you she’s commandeered the charcuterie. Mom’s interrogating the bartender about bitters. The twins are … being the twins.”
“Translation,” I said, “Max is telling someone about his ‘early-stage startup’ and Milo is pretending his mustache is a personality.”
Stephen smirked. “You get us.”
“I practically raised you.”
