Page 4 of Lady and the Butcher

“Exactly like that.” He grinned wider. “Itches get scratched. No shame in maintenance.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You really can do it with no emotional connection?”

“Sim, we’re animals. We’re built for connection, sure. But we’re also built to get off so we don’t explode.”

“Wow. So poetic.”

“I aim to inspire.”

I folded my arms, the edge of my dress crinkling under my fingers. “I’m not sure I can do it without meaning something. Like, I want it to matter. I want it to feel … not hollow.”

“Yet you’re out here fantasizing about some mystery man.”

I stilled. “What?”

“Please,” he said, voice low and amused. “You think I can’t tell when you’re lost in thought? You’ve got that look in your eyes. Like you’re mentally somewhere else.”

My cheeks burned. “I hate that you’re this observant.”

“It’s a gift.”

He bent down to unzip his duffel and pulled out a box of locally roasted coffee beans. “Peace offering. Since I failed to arrive with an iced oat latte like a proper gentleman.”

“You’re forgiven,” I said, grabbing the box and inhaling the scent. “Barely.”

We both leaned against the counter again, facing the front of the shop. A breeze pushed through the door’s top pane where it didn’t quite seal, carrying in the laughter of a bachelorette group wearing matching tank tops that saidPush It Real Good.

“This place is you,” he said after a moment. “It always has been.”

I looked around—at the vintage bassinet holding knit loveys, the shelf of postpartum tinctures, the chalkboard sign advertising tonight’s breastfeeding support circle. “Sometimes, I wonder if I built it for them, or if I built it so I’d have a reason not to unravel.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded once, like he understood more than I’d expected.

We came from a big family—five of us, born in a blur of chaos and cloth diapers and garden-grown zucchini. Me, the oldest. Stephan, a year behind. Then Darla, quiet and sharp-eyed. And the twins, Max and Milo, who’d shown up last like they knew Mom was done and they had to sneak in under the wire.

“The twins will be chaos at your party,” I said, just to shift the air. “Milo’s still nursing that sad excuse for a mustache, and Max keeps trying to convince Mom to cosign a swordfish tattoo.”

Stephan snorted. “I love our family.”

For a moment, we both watched a group of new moms walk past the window, one pushing a stroller with a sunshade, another wearing a baby on her chest.

“I heard something weird the other day,” I said.

Stephan tilted his head. “Define weird.”

“Two clients. Whispering during a postpartum prep class. About this thing. A … service.”

“What kind of service?”

I paused. “A fantasy one. One-night-only. No names. No strings.”

He raised a brow. “Like a sex club?”

“No. Just one man. Delivered like a … package.” I swallowed. “Apparently, you write them a letter. Say what you want. They send someone.”

“Is this a real thing?”

“I didn’t think so. But they spoke about it like it was sacred. Like it wasn’t even about sex. It was about being seen. Or ruined. Or both. I don’t know.”