Clay watches us all closely. “Bronson will be taking you to the flower market.”
Not with you?
The words don’t come out, merely bouncing around my cranium on repeat. Not with him. Not with youreverything.Even though it’s a Saturday. He is busy…
My pulse quickens, and I stand, dusting off my dress. "Outside?” I ask, squaring my shoulders, trying to remember that I am not the little deer he took shopping years ago, when he studied every outfit I tried on. I am now to be his wife. Wives don’t need the same amount of attention, right? I’m not a teenage girl, but a woman and mother. “Among actual people?" The words tumble out before I can stop them.
One perfect eyebrow rises on Clay's forehead. "As opposed to imaginary ones?"
I twist my engagement ring nervously. "I just meant... a real outing? Beyond these gates?"
"Yes." His answer leaves no room for elaboration.
My gaze darts to the twins. "But my babies?—"
"—will remain with me," Clay says smoothly. "Would you enjoy that, sweet girl? For a few hours, you can roam the markets at your leisure."
I flick him my sweetest look, adding a teasing tone. "Will it benormal? Or like the last time I went out without you?" Six months ago, with the twins freshly born, I'd begged Clay to let me visit a boutique for a nursing-bra. I didn’t want him to see. They are not attractive. He'd relented but sent ten of his men with me. They surrounded me like a moving barrier of designer suits, clearing shoppers from my path, inspecting clothing racks before I approached. One henchman even tasted my ice cream. Everyone stared, and I heard someone whisper, "The Butcher's girl."
"My middle name isnormal," Bronson quips, cutting into my thoughts. “I guarantee complete normality.”
Clay half-smiles. "I thought your middle name wasfun."
Did he just make a joke?
“Bronson Fun Normal Butcher, fucken ay.” He beams at my babies. “Got a nice ring-a-ding ding to it.”
“Normal? You?” I laugh.
Clay strides over to me and cups my face, tilting until my eyes meet his. “I can practically see through your thoughts, little deer. This is for you. I am unable to join you this time. I wish I could be your playmate, sweet girl, but the business I am handling at the moment is of great importance. I only need a few hours, that is all, and then I will be yours for the remainder of the weekend, Se?”
God, I love him.
“Se,”I mock.
The flower market is alive.
Literally.
With bees and people.
It feels like home, bohemian and sunshine, as I’m pulled into the hive of it with Bronson holding a steady pace at my back. There is a light breeze that moves my pink dress around my knees and my long blonde hair around my shoulders.
Market stalls line the outdoor space, tables thick with stems and colour and scents. We move through the middle of them, the air thick with pollen. Inhaling, I can almost feel its fuzzy tickle inside my nostrils. I should sneeze, maybe, but sneezing was never a thing for me.
I glance over my shoulder, up at Bronson’s wide grin. Always grinning. Something tells me he’s as alert as he is excited. His smile is at ease, yet somehow sharp, as if cut from duelling blades—one carves mischief and the other carves warning.
“I know I’m pretty,” he says to me, and I turn back to face forwards, not having spent that much time with the wild Butcher Brother.
Heisvery handsome.
Not Clay Butcher handsome.
Not to me.
Sir makes even the most apathetic of people pause, breathless, as though they’ve been knocked off-balance. Sir, who claims the space just by existing in it. He has the same effect on every red-blooded human as a virus.
I turn to a flower stall, perusing lazily. “Sorry. You’re handsome, is all.” I laugh because it is easy with him. “Your smile is so free, unlike Sir’s.” Clay Butcher thrives under duress, not excitement.
