Page 16 of Lady and the Butcher
He bumped my shoulder and then peeled off again, called by a chorus of “Birthday boy!” from somewhere near the dance floor.
Atticus watched him go, then turned back to me, gaze steady, like the world could throw confetti and pour bourbon on his shoes and he still wouldn’t look away.
“So,” he said softly. “Doula.”
“So,” I echoed. “Engineer’s mysterious friend with a cleaver on his throat.”
That almost-smile again. “You noticed.”
“I have eyes.” I tilted my head, letting myself look at the elegant lines of the tattoo. “It’s … bold.”
“It’s honest,” he said simply.
“Honest about what?”
“About what I am.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, light as sugar, like the answer didn’t matter and I wasn’t prickling all over.
He took a slow sip of bourbon, eyes holding mine over the rim. “Hungry.”
The drink I’d just swallowed did an acrobatic flip in my stomach. I cleared my throat. “Is that a line?”
“It’s a fact.” He studied me. Not impatient, just intent. “You keep looking at your phone.”
I glanced down automatically, busted. The screen was dark, empty. “Do I?” I tucked it deeper into my clutch and went with goal-line honesty. “I’m waiting on something.”
“Someone,” he corrected, like he knew where to stick the blade.
I laughed, too bright. “It’s complicated.”
“I like complicated,” he said. “It usually means interesting.”
“You like dangerous, complicated, hungry.” I ticked items off on my fingers. “Do you also like, I don’t know, homemade sourdough and long walks on the beach?”
“Not big on bread.” Another sip. “I do like long walks … when they end where I want them to.”
The heat climbed from my throat to my cheeks. My mouth opened, then shut again, because somewhere to my left, my mother’s voice rose above the crowd.
“There she is!” Mom swept in like a weather system, wine glass raised. “My golden girl. And a tall drink of something next to her.”
“Mother,” I said, half-groan, half-laugh, turning as she reached us.
She wore a floral wrap dress that fluttered theatrically in the night breeze, pearls that may or may not have been real, and an expression that could charm a telemarketer. Darla trailed behind her like a sleek shadow, already extending a hand to Atticus with a small, dry smile.
“Francine,” Mom said to him, like she was introducing herself to a diplomat. “And you must be the friend my son finally decided to share with the family.”
“Atticus,” he replied, that same composed gravity. He didn’t offer more.
“Atticus,” Mom repeated, pleased, like she’d just tasted a new spice and found it agreeable. “Do you dance, Atticus? We’re about to bully the DJ into something other than jazz.”
The DJ, a long-suffering man in a bow tie, pretended not to hear.
“I can,” he said. His gaze didn’t leave mine. “If I’m asked nicely.”
“Ha,” Mom hummed, a knowing sound. “Simone, darling, don’t let me interrupt. I’m going to go convince your brothers that synchronized choreography is not the moment.” She turned to Atticus. “Lovely to meet you. Don’t break my daughter’s heart.”
“Mom,” I hissed, mortified.
