Page 121 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
Gunther's watching us. That look. The one that makes my heart do stupid things.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just. This. You. Him. Us."
"Eloquent." I nod, sleepily.
"I'm tired. Sue me."
I kiss his temple. "Let's go home, Ridge."
"Yeah. Let's."
We gather our things. Say goodbyes. Load Orry into the car.
The plaza's quiet now. Just the fountain and the lights.
Married.
Holy hell.
Four weeks after the wedding, I wake to the sound of Orry singing the alphabet at full volume.
"Z! X! C! P!"
"Close enough," I mutter into the pillow.
Gunther's already up. I can smell coffee. And something else. Burning?
I haul myself out of bed. She's going to be a linebacker at this rate.
The kitchen's a disaster.
Flour everywhere. Eggs. A mixing bowl tipped sideways. And Gunther, standing at the stove with a spatula, staring at a pan like it holds the secrets of the universe.
"What are you doing?"
He jumps. "Making breakfast."
"By summoning chaos?"
"It's supposed to be pancakes."
"Those are not pancakes."
"They're helmet-shaped." He points to the pan. "See? Little orcish helmets. Orry requested them."
I lean over. Squint. One looks vaguely helmet-shaped. The others resemble abstract art.
"That one's a helmet. The rest are crimes against food."
"Constructive criticism appreciated."
Orry's in his high chair, banging a spoon. "Hewmet! Hewmet!"
"Coming, buddy." Gunther slides the least-burnt one onto a plate. Cuts it into pieces. Sets it in front of Orry.
Our son examines it. Picks up a chunk. Takes a bite.
