Page 14 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
"Sir, our staff directory is on our website. Feel free to check there."
I check. No Sis. Shocking.
I call four more places. A makeup counter at the department store. A salon that swears they only do hair, not cosmetics, and I should know the difference. A boutique that sells something called "clean beauty" and spends three minutes trying to explain what that means before I interrupt to ask about Sis.
Nothing.
By eight o'clock,I've called every cosmetics-adjacent business in a ten-mile radius and learned absolutely nothing except that apparently I'm terrible at detective work.
My desk is covered in notes. Scribbled names, phone numbers, dead ends. The napkin sits in the center like evidence I can't interpret.
You screwed up.
Colum's voice again, except this time it's my own. I screwed up by not asking her name. Her real name. By not getting her number before we left the party. Before we ended up in that motel room where I was too busy being Ridge to think about what came after.
I'd been so focused on the moment, on being spontaneous and confident and everything Gunther usually isn't, that I forgot the basics. And I wasn't about to involve Colum further by asking him her real name. He didn't need fodder to roast me more.
Names. Numbers. Details that matter when you wake up alone and realize the person you can't stop thinking about is functionally a stranger.
The glitter on my fingers catches the light.
She's real. The napkin proves it. The memory of her laugh, the way she'd looked at me like I was worth her time, the cherry taste of her lip gloss, all real.
But real doesn't help me find her.
I shut the browser. Fold the napkin carefully back into the printer paper and tuck it into my drawer next to the hair tie and Clarence.
Evidence of your poor life choices, I think.Start a collection.
The whole shop smells like my signature blend: heavy on the hibiscus with a hint of citrus and rose.
My phone lights up.
Colum, naturally. Status: still sulking?
I type back: Working.
Liar. Go home. Eat something. Preferably something that didn't come from a vending machine.
I'm fine.
You're spiraling. I know spiraling. You get that thing with your shoulders.
I don't have a thing with my shoulders.
You absolutely do. It's like you're trying to fold yourself into a human envelope.
Despite everything, I almost smile.
Go home, Gunther. She'll turn up.
I want to believe him. Colum's usually right about these things. He has an annoying habit of being correct about matters of human behavior, probably because he spends so much time manipulating it for his own entertainment.
But this feels different.
This feels like I had something good for exactly six hours and then watched it slip away because I was too afraid to be myself.
I pack up my desk. Tuck my laptop into my bag, straighten my pocket protector, and grab the leather jacket from the back of my chair.
