Page 25 of Lady and the Butcher
“On my way,” I said, already on my feet.
I changed clothes then gathered my doula bag from its hook in the hall closet, checking automatically for a few of the essentials—birth ball, massage oil, extra phone charger, the peppermint spray some mothers swore by for nausea. My hands moved on muscle memory.
By the time I stepped outside, the night air felt thick against my skin. The street was quiet except for the low hum of a car engine somewhere nearby. I turned toward it—and saw him.
Or at least, I saw a man.
A sleek, black luxury sedan idled across the street, windows tinted dark enough to hide everything but the faint outline of a figure in the driver’s seat. The shape was still, but I felt the weight of eyes on me. My pulse spiked for an entirely different reason now, heat flickering low in my belly.
It could be him.
I should have ignored it—kept walking, unlocked my car, gone about my night like nothing was different. But the part of me that had sent the Alpha Mail letter, the part that had stood across the room from him tonight feeling wanted, needed to feed the game.
I shifted my weight and bent to check the knot on my sneaker, the motion pulling my fitted yoga pants tight across the curve of my thigh. The streetlight caught on the sheen of my skin just above the hem, where the fabric rode higher than usual. Straightening, I adjusted the scoop of my tank top—not enough to be obvious, just enough to let the heat settle between us—before heading for my car without glancing back.
Even as I slid behind the wheel, I could feel the thrum of it—the possibility that he was watching, cataloguing every movement, deciding what to do with me next. And God, help me, I really wanted him to decide.
9
Morning hit like a slap. Not the gentle, rise-and-shine kind—more like the get-up-or-lose-your-business variety. I’d managed maybe forty-five minutes of real sleep before my alarm went off, thanks to the overnight birth that left me smelling like lavender water and … well, things you can’t bottle and sell.
I rolled into The Nesting Place on caffeine fumes and muscle memory, dumped my doula bag behind the counter, and went straight into my Newborn Care for First-Time Dads class.
And no, I hadn’t been exaggerating to Atticus—some of these men could fall asleep mid–diaper demonstration like it was an Olympic sport. Pass out didn’t mean faint. It meant full-on, head-tilted-back, drooling-on-the-onesie-snugger nap. My job was to keep them conscious long enough to learn the difference between a swaddle and a burrito wrap.
By the time the last dad shuffled out, I’d sweated through my tank top and felt like I’d been on the wrong end of a pillow fight. Presentation clothes were non-negotiable for the rest of the day—no one shopping for a $150 organic baby sling wanted their salesperson to look like she’d been dragged behind a minivan.
I slipped into the back room, peeled off my top, and reached for the clean blouse I kept in a garment bag. As I stepped out of my leggings, I noticed it—a tiny, round opening up high, where the drywall met the top of the storage shelves. No bigger than a quarter.
For a beat, I froze.
Ridiculous thought, right? But it still hit me like a jolt—what if there was a camera behind it? What if Atticus Carver, in all his silent, alpha glory, was watching me right now?
The air felt different suddenly, heavier. My mind raced back to last night, to the way his gaze locked onto mine across the crowd, like he’d been memorizing me.
I stood there, half-dressed, staring at that opening until my pulse started to kick.
Then I shook it off. Exhaustion makes you imagine things. There was no way—absolutely no way—that a man like him could have a camera in here without me knowing.
Right?
I tugged on the blouse, smoothed it over my hips, and told myself to forget it. But the image stuck—Atticus leaning back somewhere, watching. Not smiling. Just knowing.
Returning to the front of the store, I busied myself with folding a stack of muslin swaddles, pretending that the tiny hole in the drywall wasn’t still whispering to me from the back room. The bell over the shop door chimed, and for a split second, my stomach dipped—reflex more than reason—but it was only a young mom with a stroller and a look of wide-eyed desperation. She needed a baby wrap “like, yesterday,” and I was grateful for the distraction.
By the time she left, sunlight was slanting hard through the front windows, the kind that made the polished wood floor glow honey-gold. I moved to adjust a display when something caught at the edge of my vision.
Out on the sidewalk.
Leaning against the lamppost.
Atticus.
Black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, sleeves hugging biceps that made the fabric strain. He wasn’t looking at his phone. Wasn’t pretending to check his watch. Just … watching my store. Watchingme.
It was almost worse than if he’d come inside. At least, then I’d know what he wanted, why he was here. But this—this was calculated. A power play. He was giving me time to notice him, to feel him out there like a static charge pressing against the glass.
I bent to straighten a shelf, heart thudding in my ears. When I glanced up again, he was still there, his weight balanced on one leg, the other bent slightly as if he had nowhere in the world to be but right there.
