Page 2 of Lady and the Butcher
Not the version of me who lay awake at night, touching myself to the idea of something rough. Of being used. Of not being the one to hold space for once, but the one made to lose it completely.
The bell above the door jingled, and I stood up fast, tucking a golden curl behind my ear and wiping my hands on the soft cotton skirt of my sunflower-yellow wrap dress—fitted at the waist, breezy everywhere else, and covered in faint smudges of calendula balm.
“Welcome to?—”
“Don’t start with your customer voice,” a familiar drawl interrupted. “You know it makes you sound like you teach goat yoga on a commune.”
I blinked. Then laughed. “Stephan?”
My little brother—who somehow looked like a Patagonia ad and a contractor all at once—stepped through the door carrying a canvas duffel and the same cocky smile he’d had since high school.
“You’re back,” I said, coming around the counter and pulling him into a hug. “How long have you been in Charleston?”
“Couple hours.” He squeezed me tight. “You were my first stop. Be flattered.”
“I am. And also mildly offended you didn’t bring coffee.”
He stepped back and looked me over. “You look good, Sim. Like, crunchy-goddess-who-knows-how-to-midwife-a-goat good.”
“I don’t know how to midwife a goat.”
He raised a brow. “I feel like you could figure it out.”
“Don’t tempt me. The doula memes would write themselves.”
He dropped his bag beside the counter and glanced around the shop. “Place looks great. Bigger than last time.”
“I knocked down a wall. Built out the consultation space.”
“You did that yourself?”
“I hired a woman who runs a lesbian construction co-op. We bonded.”
He grinned. “Of course, you did.”
I leaned back against the counter and crossed my arms. “So. To what do I owe the honor?”
“My birthday,” he said, all faux innocence. “I’m turning thirty. Thought I’d plan a party. Wanted to make sure my favorite older sister would be there.”
I snorted. “I’m your only older sister.”
“Still counts.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What kind of party?”
“Nothing wild. Just drinks, food, friends. Saturday night. You in?”
I tilted my head. “Will I have to talk to any finance bros or libertarians?”
“No. But you might have to be nice to a couple of my colleagues.”
“Define ‘colleagues.’”
“Engineers. Infrastructure nerds. Some old friends. One of them might bring a guitar.”
I groaned.
He laughed. “He only plays sad girl covers of The Killers, so you’ll survive.”
