Page 20 of Lady and the Butcher

“Alicia? I’m … reserving judgment.”

He watched me over the rim of his glass, pleased. “You’re honest.”

“Sometimes, I’m tired.”

“Tired and honest is still honest.”

We fell into another small silence, the comfortable kind that’s rare with strangers. Except he didn’t feel like a stranger, and I didn’t have the bandwidth to unpack that without lying down.

“You work with Stephen?” I asked. Innocent question. Fishing line.

“No.” His mouth curved. “You keep trying to put me in a box.”

“Occupational hazard. I label things for a living.”

“You label babies. Not me.”

“Babies don’t argue.”

“They do. Loudly.” His gaze didn’t waver. “You waiting on your phone, Lady?”

My chest squeezed. “Maybe.”

“You think you’ll miss him if you’re here.”

How would he know that … unless?—

It had to be him.Hadto be. But how?

The world narrowed. I hated him for being right. I liked him more for saying it.

“I think …” I let my eyes close for a beat, forced a breath to steady. “I think I wrote something I can’t take back.”

He turned the bourbon in his hand, light catching the amber. “People always think that. That words lock them into something. They forget the other thing that’s true.”

“What’s that?”

“That sometimes you write exactly the thing that frees you.” His gaze slid to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You’ll know the difference when it knocks.”

My heart hit the bars of my ribs hard enough to bruise. I looked at him and saw the danger I’d joked about. Yet, I looked at him and saw safety, anyway.

It made no sense. It made all the sense.

Behind us, a cheer went up—someone had brought out a huge cake. Stephen shouted something into a microphone. Alicia held his knee like she owned it. Mom clapped off-beat and cried a little. Darla smiled with her eyes. The twins attempted harmonies. The lights glowed warmer. The moss breathed. The city hummed.

Atticus set his empty glass on a high-top table without looking. “Walk with me,” he said, not a question.

I glanced toward the cake, then at my clutch, then at him. “Where?”

He tipped his head toward the darker edge of the lawn where the oaks crowded a little closer and the bricks gave way to packed earth. “Just there.”

I should have said no. I should have quoted safety statistics or made a joke about serial killers or told him I needed to watch my brother mangle a birthday wish.

Instead, I followed.

The music softened as we stepped under the densest arcs of moss. The party receded by degrees. Crickets took over the soundtrack. The air cooled an inch, and the scent of damp soil rose up, steady and old.

He stopped when the lights were mostly behind us. Not touching. Close enough that if I lifted my hand, my fingers would find the stubble at his jaw. His tattoo caught the edge of the glow, blade rendered in shadow and light.