Chapter 6
B efore long, Stephen wandered off—something about a round of shots with Max and Milo—and it was just Atticus and me.
He didn’t move closer, not really. He didn’t have to. That stare of his was a physical thing, heat and gravity braided together, like standing too near the edge of a summer storm. The slow jazz under the oaks seemed to dim around us. My sparkling rosé felt suddenly too sweet, too warm in my hand.
Mercy.
I did the thing I always do when I’m nervous: I opened my mouth and let the jokes march out.
“So,” I said, twirling the stem of my glass like I was auditioning to be Femme Fatale Number Three in a B-movie, “you’re allegedly a friend of my brother’s, and yet I’ve never seen you at one of these family circuses. Were you in witness protection or something?”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile—more like an assessment he enjoyed making. “Maybe,” he said, voice low, the kind of low that slid under your skin and unbuttoned things without asking. “Maybe, I just pick my moments.”
The air between us tugged. A small, traitorous shiver ran down my spine. I swallowed and tried for breezy.
“You’re staring,” I said, aiming for bored and landing on breathless.
“I am,” he agreed.
Zero shame. All certainty.
“You always stare at women like they’re an equation to solve?”
“Only when the math is worth it.” His gaze traced the neckline of my dress, then returned to my eyes. “You look like trouble.”
I put a hand to my chest in mock offense. “Me? I’m a doula. I bring life into the world. I am the opposite of trouble.”
“That’s not what I see.” His eyes flicked down again, unbearably slow. “What I see makes me think … trouble.”
Heat crept up my throat, traitorously pleased. I took a sip to buy myself enough time to come up with a retort that wasn’t ruin me then .
“Do you say that about all women,” I managed, “or am I special?”
“Special,” he said without hesitation. “Definitely special, Lady.”
I blinked, pulse stuttering. Lady . The word landed with a jolt, sliding right into the groove carved by those texts. It should’ve sounded old-fashioned or condescending. From him, it felt like a touch.
“Lady?” I echoed.
“That’s your name now.” His tone suggested this was not a democracy. “Until I come up with something better.”
Wait. Could this be the guy?
No. Surely not. That’s?—
Before I could decide whether to be outraged or aroused, Stephen materialized again, cheeks a little flushed, two bourbons in hand and a grin he tried to school into something brotherly.
“Everything good over here?” he asked, splitting his attention between Atticus and me as if he’d walked into a room where he’d left a lit candle.
“Peachy,” I said, tipping my glass toward him. “Your friend was just telling me I look like trouble.”
Stephen coughed into a laugh. “Yeah, well. He’s not wrong.” He passed one bourbon to Atticus. “Darla says tell you she’s commandeered the charcuterie. Mom’s interrogating the bartender about bitters. The twins are … being the twins.”
“Translation,” I said, “Max is telling someone about his ‘early-stage startup’ and Milo is pretending his mustache is a personality.”
Stephen smirked. “You get us.”
“I practically raised you.”
He bumped my shoulder and then peeled off again, called by a chorus of “Birthday boy!” from somewhere near the dance floor.
Atticus watched him go, then turned back to me, gaze steady, like the world could throw confetti and pour bourbon on his shoes and he still wouldn’t look away.
“So,” he said softly. “Doula.”
“So,” I echoed. “Engineer’s mysterious friend with a cleaver on his throat.”
That almost-smile again. “You noticed.”
“I have eyes.” I tilted my head, letting myself look at the elegant lines of the tattoo. “It’s … bold.”
“It’s honest,” he said simply.
“Honest about what?”
“About what I am.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, light as sugar, like the answer didn’t matter and I wasn’t prickling all over.
He took a slow sip of bourbon, eyes holding mine over the rim. “Hungry.”
The drink I’d just swallowed did an acrobatic flip in my stomach. I cleared my throat. “Is that a line?”
“It’s a fact.” He studied me. Not impatient, just intent. “You keep looking at your phone.”
I glanced down automatically, busted. The screen was dark, empty. “Do I?” I tucked it deeper into my clutch and went with goal-line honesty. “I’m waiting on something.”
“Someone,” he corrected, like he knew where to stick the blade.
I laughed, too bright. “It’s complicated.”
“I like complicated,” he said. “It usually means interesting.”
“You like dangerous, complicated, hungry.” I ticked items off on my fingers. “Do you also like, I don’t know, homemade sourdough and long walks on the beach?”
“Not big on bread.” Another sip. “I do like long walks … when they end where I want them to.”
The heat climbed from my throat to my cheeks. My mouth opened, then shut again, because somewhere to my left, my mother’s voice rose above the crowd.
“There she is!” Mom swept in like a weather system, wine glass raised. “My golden girl. And a tall drink of something next to her.”
“Mother,” I said, half-groan, half-laugh, turning as she reached us.
She wore a floral wrap dress that fluttered theatrically in the night breeze, pearls that may or may not have been real, and an expression that could charm a telemarketer. Darla trailed behind her like a sleek shadow, already extending a hand to Atticus with a small, dry smile.
“Francine,” Mom said to him, like she was introducing herself to a diplomat. “And you must be the friend my son finally decided to share with the family.”
“Atticus,” he replied, that same composed gravity. He didn’t offer more.
“Atticus,” Mom repeated, pleased, like she’d just tasted a new spice and found it agreeable. “Do you dance, Atticus? We’re about to bully the DJ into something other than jazz.”
The DJ, a long-suffering man in a bow tie, pretended not to hear.
“I can,” he said. His gaze didn’t leave mine. “If I’m asked nicely.”
“Ha,” Mom hummed, a knowing sound. “Simone, darling, don’t let me interrupt. I’m going to go convince your brothers that synchronized choreography is not the moment.” She turned to Atticus. “Lovely to meet you. Don’t break my daughter’s heart.”
“Mom,” I hissed, mortified.
She kissed my cheek and sailed off into the night, snagging Darla on the way to their next meddling opportunity. Darla sent me a look over her shoulder—observant, amused, sharp as ever. Later, I’d pay for that look. It said, we will talk .
Alicia appeared then, like she’d been waiting for a lull.
Up close, she was all light and edges—white jumpsuit catching the glow, hair sleek, eyes that registered everything and judged very little.
She had two waters in her hands; she passed one to me without fuss, like she’d already clocked the way my rosé was evaporating faster than I was drinking it.
“Hydrate,” she said. “I’m not above mothering a stranger.”
“That’s usually my job,” I said, accepting the bottle. “But thanks.”
She turned to Atticus with that polished ease. “I’m Alicia. Girlfriend of the birthday boy.”
“Atticus,” he said again.
Alicia’s gaze flicked from his tattoo to his eyes and back to me.
Some calculus happened there; whatever answer she got, she tucked away.
“Simone, I’m stealing your brother for twenty minutes to force him to speak to his own party.
If you see him trying to crawl under the charcuterie table to escape photos, please drag him back. ”
“Gladly,” I said. “And if you see the twins start a chant, unplug the speakers.”
“Noted.” She smiled, warm and direct, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Also, I told that guy near the bar that doulas are not ‘birth DJs,’ and he apologized. Twice.”
My opinion of her bumped up a level. “You may stay.”
“Thank God.” She winked, squeezed my arm, and floated away, already scanning for Stephen.
I watched her go, surprise tugging the corner of my mouth. “Okay,” I admitted, half to myself. “She might not be terrible.”
“Not terrible,” Atticus said softly, “is high praise from you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You’ve known me for twelve minutes.”
“Eleven,” he corrected, absolutely unforgivable.
I snorted before I could stop myself. “You keep time on women?”
“Only the ones who make it feel longer.”
That shouldn’t have landed like a finger down my spine. It did.
A flash of movement to my right—Max and Milo approached like a two-man weather pattern, hair windblown, shirts untucked, the faint air of chaos that perpetually accompanied them preceding their bodies by a few seconds.
“Sim!” Max swept me into a hug that smelled like whiskey and cologne he’d spritzed directly onto his shirt. “Did you meet Stephen’s scary friend yet?”
“Max,” I said against his shoulder. “Your inside voice fell out of your mouth.”
Milo hooked a thumb at Atticus, unabashed. “Dude’s neck says don’t mess with me . Respect.”
Atticus regarded them with a look that fell somewhere between tolerant and entertained. “Max. Milo,” he said.
They lit up in the way the twins did when someone didn’t immediately lump them into a single blur. “Hell, yeah,” Max said, already distracted by a tray of bacon-wrapped dates drifting past. “You coming to the after-party? Stephen booked the rooftop at?—”
“Max,” I said, shoving a bacon date into his open mouth. “Go find Darla. She needs help keeping Mom from requesting ‘Pony.’”
“On it,” Milo saluted, snickering. “But if she gets up to dance, I’m filming it.”
“Of course, you are.”
They vanished, a wake of laughter in their path. The night swelled. Cicadas sang loud enough to feel like static. A breeze threaded through the moss. I rolled the cold water bottle against my wrist and caught Atticus watching the motion like it meant something.
Why was this guy watching me? I kind of liked it.
“You’re nervous,” he said, not a question.
“I’m … warm,” I countered. “It’s Charleston. The air is soup. We live in a swamp held together by good manners and iced tea.”
“You keep making jokes because you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous. I’m distracted.”
“Because you’re waiting.”
This time, the words hit home so precisely I had to look away. The lights over the oaks blurred for a second, haloing out. I made myself breathe.
“You don’t know me,” I said again, softer.
“I know the look,” he said. “The kind of waiting that’s a magnet.”
I glanced back at him. “You think I’m a magnet?”
“I think you’re already pulling whatever you want toward you.” His eyes lowered, unapologetic. “I think you asked for it.”
The ground tilted a fraction. The party snapped into an odd relief—laughter, clinking glass, the murmur of a toast—while some private frequency slid just beneath it, thrumming at my ribs.
“Do you dance?” I asked suddenly, desperate to reroute my body into motion before my brain detonated.
His gaze warmed. “If you ask nicely.”
I stepped into the edge of his space and held out my hand. “Please.”
He didn’t look at my hand. He looked at my mouth. Then he took it—my hand, not my mouth—and guided me slowly toward the patch of grass where a few couples swayed under the lights.
We didn’t say anything for the first few measures.
His palm settled at my waist. My hand found the breadth of his shoulder under the suit fabric, the hard line of muscle that spoke to a life without desk chairs—dense, warm, there .
Heat shot low like my body had been waiting for exactly this shape to press against.
We moved like we’d been dancing together longer than eleven minutes. He kept just enough space that propriety could pretend to be intact. It felt like a dare.
“You lead,” I said, because, of course, he did and because I wanted to hear what he’d do with it.
“I will,” he said, like a promise.
He guided me through a turn that wasn’t fancy, so much as inevitable.
My dress whispered against my legs, my heels bit into the grass.
I felt absurdly aware of my own thighs. His thumb pressed a little more insistently at my waist. He smelled like clean skin, bourbon, and something darker—cedar, smoke, steel maybe.
“It’s not fair,” I said lightly, because if the truth rose, I’d drown in it. “You get to be all intense and dangerous while I look like the snack table.”
“The snack table?” That almost-smile again. “Lady, you’re the main course.”
“Is that a butcher joke?”
“It can be,” he said, and for the first time the tattoo on his throat felt less like a threat and more like a dictionary no one else could read.