Page 19 of Lady and the Butcher
“Same thing,” he said. “Stubborn is just love with armor.”
I stared up at him for a second longer than polite. “Who taught you to say things like that?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
We swayed, breathed, hovered. The song changed, pealed out, the DJ finding his courage. The air shifted as more people flooded the dance floor. Atticus eased his hand from my waist like the break of a seal. The night rushed back in.
“You want another drink?” he asked.
“I should …” I glanced at my clutch like it might sprout a notification just to help me make my decision. The screen stayed blank. “Yes. Water. Please.”
He nodded once and moved toward the bar with that unhurried efficiency, like there was no scenario in which what he wanted was not eventually his. I stared at his back, the fine cut of the jacket, the way people moved around him without fully realizing they were giving him space.
“You look like a cat watching a window,” Alicia murmured, reappearing at my elbow.
I startled. “Do I?”
She followed my gaze. “He’s … something.”
“That’s one word.”
“How many would get me in trouble?”
“At least three.”
She laughed, then sobered, scanning my face. “All good?”
I nodded, then adjusted it to the truth. “I’m … wired.”
“Birthday parties will do that.” She nudged my shoulder. “And unknown quantities in good suits.”
“I like known quantities,” I lied.
“Do you?” She tipped her head. “Stephen says you like a challenge.”
“Stephen says a lot of things.”
“He does.” She smiled, not defensive, just fond. “For what it’s worth, I like you.”
I blinked. “Me?”
“You come in like you own your space. It makes other people find theirs.” She shrugged. “Also you saved me from a ‘so you’re the nanny’ question earlier by standing next to me and glaring at a man until he walked away.”
I snorted. “That was for me. I was bored.”
“Uh-huh.” Alicia squeezed my forearm, then her attention snagged on something across the yard. “Francine is conducting a conga line. Gotta go.”
“Do you, now?” I asked. My smile was real.
Atticus returned then, water in one hand, a fresh bourbon in the other. He passed me the bottle, and our fingers brushed on purpose.
“Thank you,” I said, lifting it to my lips.
Alicia took the hint with the grace of a woman who’d navigated more complicated rooms than this. “I’m going to go make sure your mother doesn’t accidentally crowd-surf,” she said lightly, and disappeared back into the fray.
Funny how Stephen hadn’t mentioned Alicia to me—not once—and yet she’d slipped into the family current like she’d always known our eddies and undertows. Watching her fold my mother’s stubbornness into laughter and keep pace with the twins’ chaos, I felt something unclench. Whatever else we were bracing for, I wanted my brother to have this: ease, love, a person who chose him on purpose.
“You’re good with her,” Atticus said.
