Page 130 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
Evening falls.The market winds down, the crowds thinning as vendors begin packing up their stalls and families drift toward the parking lot.
We're sitting by the fountain, watching the last golden light play across the water. Orry's asleep in the stroller, one sticky hand still clutching a half-eaten cookie. Mara's tucked against Gunther's chest in the carrier, her tiny face smooshed against the fabric, making those ridiculous sleeping-baby snuffles that somehow reset my entire nervous system.
My feet hurt. My arms hurt. I'm pretty sure there's glitter in places glitter should never be.
But I'm smiling.
Colum finds us, because of course he does. The man has a sixth sense for Meaningful Moments.
"Successful outing?" he asks, settling onto the fountain's edge with the satisfied air of someone who's orchestrated everything perfectly.
"Surprisingly," I say, stretching my legs out in front of me.
"Told you. People love you."
"People love a story."
"Same thing." He grins, adjusting his pocket square—which today is patterned with tiny calculators, because apparently he's committed to the bit. "You're good for Poplar Springs. Good for business. Good for morale. The plaza's never been this lively on a Saturday."
"We're not a PR campaign, Colum."
"No. You're a family. Which is better." His tone shifts, just slightly, losing some of that theatrical edge. "Which matters more."
Gunther adjusts Mara carefully, one hand cupping her head. She makes a soft sound, a little sigh that might be contentment or gas—impossible to tell with babies—and settles deeper against him.
"Thanks," he says quietly, not looking up. "For. Everything. The space at the market. The. Encouragement. All of it."
Colum waves it off with characteristic flourish, but I catch the genuine warmth in his expression. "I'm insufferable and meddling and I stage things for maximum dramatic effect. But I care. About this community. About you two."
"We know," I say.
"Good. Now go home before one of you falls asleep sitting up. You both look absolutely exhausted."
He's not wrong. Gunther's blinking slowly behind his glasses, and I can feel the bone-deep fatigue settling into my shoulders.
We do. We go home.
That night,when we finally make it home—both kids asleep before we even get them through the door—Gunther and I collapse onto the couch with all the grace of toppled dominoes.
"We survived," I say, my voice muffled because I'm already half-buried in a throw pillow.
"Barely."
"But we did."
He pulls me close, shifting so I can rest my head on his shoulder without getting a face full of pocket protector. His shirt still smells faintly of baby powder and that cologne he thinks I don't know he wears specifically because I once said I liked it.
"This is good," he says quietly.
"What is?"
"This. Us. The kids. The chaos." He pauses, and I can practically hear him running calculations in his head. "The complete and utter lack of structure to our Saturday mornings."
"The viral fame?"
"I could do without that part."
"Too late, Ridge. You're a meme now."
