Page 17 of Lady and the Butcher
She kissed my cheek and sailed off into the night, snagging Darla on the way to their next meddling opportunity. Darla sent me a look over her shoulder—observant, amused, sharp as ever. Later, I’d pay for that look. It said,we will talk.
Alicia appeared then, like she’d been waiting for a lull. Up close, she was all light and edges—white jumpsuit catching the glow, hair sleek, eyes that registered everything and judged very little. She had two waters in her hands; she passed one to me without fuss, like she’d already clocked the way my rosé was evaporating faster than I was drinking it.
“Hydrate,” she said. “I’m not above mothering a stranger.”
“That’s usually my job,” I said, accepting the bottle. “But thanks.”
She turned to Atticus with that polished ease. “I’m Alicia. Girlfriend of the birthday boy.”
“Atticus,” he said again.
Alicia’s gaze flicked from his tattoo to his eyes and back to me. Some calculus happened there; whatever answer she got, she tucked away. “Simone, I’m stealing your brother for twenty minutes to force him to speak to his own party. If you see him trying to crawl under the charcuterie table to escape photos, please drag him back.”
“Gladly,” I said. “And if you see the twins start a chant, unplug the speakers.”
“Noted.” She smiled, warm and direct, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Also, I told that guy near the bar that doulas are not ‘birth DJs,’ and he apologized. Twice.”
My opinion of her bumped up a level. “You may stay.”
“Thank God.” She winked, squeezed my arm, and floated away, already scanning for Stephen.
I watched her go, surprise tugging the corner of my mouth. “Okay,” I admitted, half to myself. “She might not be terrible.”
“Not terrible,” Atticus said softly, “is high praise from you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You’ve known me for twelve minutes.”
“Eleven,” he corrected, absolutely unforgivable.
I snorted before I could stop myself. “You keep time on women?”
“Only the ones who make it feel longer.”
That shouldn’t have landed like a finger down my spine. It did.
A flash of movement to my right—Max and Milo approached like a two-man weather pattern, hair windblown, shirts untucked, the faint air of chaos that perpetually accompanied them preceding their bodies by a few seconds.
“Sim!” Max swept me into a hug that smelled like whiskey and cologne he’d spritzed directly onto his shirt. “Did you meet Stephen’s scary friend yet?”
“Max,” I said against his shoulder. “Your inside voice fell out of your mouth.”
Milo hooked a thumb at Atticus, unabashed. “Dude’s neck saysdon’t mess with me. Respect.”
Atticus regarded them with a look that fell somewhere between tolerant and entertained. “Max. Milo,” he said.
They lit up in the way the twins did when someone didn’t immediately lump them into a single blur. “Hell, yeah,” Max said, already distracted by a tray of bacon-wrapped dates drifting past. “You coming to the after-party? Stephen booked the rooftop at?—”
“Max,” I said, shoving a bacon date into his open mouth. “Go find Darla. She needs help keeping Mom from requesting ‘Pony.’”
“On it,” Milo saluted, snickering. “But if she gets up to dance, I’m filming it.”
“Of course, you are.”
They vanished, a wake of laughter in their path. The night swelled. Cicadas sang loud enough to feel like static. A breeze threaded through the moss. I rolled the cold water bottle against my wrist and caught Atticus watching the motion like it meant something.
