Page 16 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
The Iron Horse smelled like leather and hops and something indefinablyorcthat made my stomach flip. Not unpleasant. Just... intense. The bartender, a woman with biceps like tree trunks and a nose ring that could double as a weapon, listened to my description with increasing amusement.
"Motorcycle Ridge? Tattoos?" She'd laughed, not unkindly. "Honey, that sounds like someone's Halloween costume. We get a lot of guys trying to look tougher than they are. No one by that name's a regular."
Dead end.
I thanked her, bought a ginger ale I didn't drink, and walked home feeling like an idiot.
Now I'm pregnant with a stranger's baby and the only things I know about him are that his name probably isn't Ridge, he definitely isn't a regular at the orc bar, and he has a truly impressive collection of fake tattoos.
Great foundation for co-parenting, I think grimly.
The door to the restroom swings open. I grab my bag and exit the stall with as much dignity as a woman can muster when she's just peed on a stick in a public bathroom.
Outside, the plaza is starting to wake up. Colum's finance office has lights on. The coffee shop is brewing its first batch. My pop-up stall sits in its usual corner, waiting for me to setup the folding table and arrange my samples into something Instagram-worthy.
I pause halfway across the tile floor.
You could end this.
The thought arrives uninvited. Clinical. I'm early enough that it would be simple. Safe. No one would need to know.
But even as I think it, my hand moves to my stomach.
Nope.
I don't know why. Can't explain it logically. I've built a business out of nothing, survived on ramen and determination, and spent three years proving I don't need anyone's help.
A baby should terrify me.
It does terrify me.
But somewhere under the terror is something else. Something stubborn and warm and utterly irrational.
Mine.
I'm keeping him. Her. Them. Whatever this cluster of cells decides to become.
And I'm doing it alone, because apparently that's my brand now.
The first trimesteris hell disguised as exhaustion.
I wake up nauseous, spend my mornings trying not to vomit on customers, and go home to pass out by eight PM. My pop-up stall, now moved to the Heights over Poplar Springs, becomes a test of endurance. I learn to keep saltines in my apron pocket and breath mints on my folding table because apparently pregnancy makes you smelleverything.
The woman who buys my hibiscus and rosewater face mist? She reeks of tuna salad. It's my best seller—the scent I wear every day—but even it can't mask that..
The guy who wants beard oil recommendations? His cologne could strip paint.
Even the coffee shop three stalls over becomes my nemesis. The scent of espresso makes me gag so hard I have to take my breaks outside, sitting on the curb like a teenager cutting class.
Lydia notices.
Of course she does. The woman, my neighbor and friend, has the observational skills of a particularly nosy hawk.
"You feeling alright?" She catches me one morning as I'm setting up, eyeing the green tinge to my skin with concern that's almost maternal.
"Fine. Just tired."
"You look like you're about to hurl into that glitter display."
