Page 63 of Lady and the Butcher
His bubbles appeared at once.Good. I’ll send the car. Eat something.
I smiled down at the bossiness like an idiot.Already did, I wrote.Mint tea, too.
He sent a dot, then another.Good. Bring the clothes I got you.
Heat ran through me in a line that made me brace a hand on the door frame. I typed:Noted. Then added,I want you.
The dots didn’t appear for a long ten seconds. Then:Say that again when I’m close enough to hear it.
The tug-of-war inside me tightened and eased at the same time. I thought of Stephen’s face at the seawall. I thought of my mother’s voice. I thought of the man who emptied rooms and filled mine with quiet. I thought of a milk fridge humming like a new heart.
I could be wanted and wary. I could be grateful and skeptical. I could be a woman who wrote a letter for one night and still walked toward a life that meant more.
Couldn’t I?
Mei waved me toward the door with aGothat sounded like blessing. Gianna held up a bag of curbside and promised to lock up behind me. The bell chimed and the evening air hit my face. I pulled the door shut and rested my forehead against the glass for one beat, the way I do when a baby latches after a hard start.
Relief. Awe. A little fear that it might not hold.
My phone buzzed. Stephen. A single text.Be smart. Text me in the morning.
I typed back:I will. I’m safe.
He sent a thumbs up. The cheap little icon looked earnest and inadequate and perfectly right.
I stood there and felt the day lift. The car pulled up. Not the driver from last night. A different one with the same quiet face. I slid in and held my tote in my lap like a talisman. The city rolled by, all soft gold and shadow. I watched the glass buildings catch the sky and throw it back at itself. I watched people hold hands and not know they were lucky. I let my head fall back and closed my eyes.
This had already broken the Alpha Mail rules. No names. No overlap. No strings. I had a man who knew my name and my brother’s favorite beer and the layout of a birth center waiting room. I had strings.
I was not tangled. Not yet. But it was getting close.
The elevator swallowed me in hush and mirrored light. I checked my reflection one more time. Still me. A little wild. A little wrecked. Very much alive.
I knocked, because I liked the way he opened doors. Tonight wasn’t a mystery anymore. Tonight was a choice I had made with my whole body.
The door swung wide. His eyes flicked over me and didn’t move away. There was hunger there. There was also that other thing that had no name yet. Respect sharpened by possession. Curiosity slow as a tide. Something that looked a lot like care.
“Come here,” he said.
I did. The tug-of-war inside me didn’t stop. It only shifted weight and found new ground. I could live with that. I could move with it. I could let it make me stronger.
I set my tote on the console. I reached for the hem of my shirt. I looked him straight in the face and thought ofmy mother’s porch and Stephen’s warning and Alana’s flaming hearts. I thought of a tiny furious hand in a photo and the way Maria had laughed through tears when she realized she had done the impossible and also the ordinary.
“Tell me something true,” I said.
His mouth tipped. “You first.”
“I’m scared,” I said. “And I want you, anyway.”
“Good,” he said. “That means you’re awake.”
The city burned through the glass. The night lifted its hem and invited us in. I walked forward, wide awake, both hands on the rope.
20
He didn’t step aside. He drew me in. The suite turned into a place with only one weather system. Us.
“Give me your bag,” he said.
