Page 2 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
I should say no. I have inventory to organize, a business plan to stress over, and a standing date with my bathtub and a glass of wine I can't really afford. But the napkin smells like possibility and hot wings, and I've been eating cereal for dinner three nights a week.
"What time?"
"Eight. Don't dress up. The Iron Horse has a strict 'no black-tie' policy." He's already backing away, grin widening. "Youwon't regret this, Cecie. I throw alegendarymid-tier office party."
He vanishes into Fishborn Financial before I can change my mind.
I look at the napkin. Back at my bins of glitter and hope. At the tea shop next door, where someone is definitely suffering through a cup of whatever "Digestive Clarity Blend" promises.
Free food. Worst case, you leave early and still come out ahead.
I tuck the napkin into my apron pocket, right next to the tin labeledCalmand my emergency safety pins.
The Iron Horsesmells like leather, fryer grease, and years of spilled beer that have seeped into the floorboards and become structural.
I love it immediately.
The back patio Colum rented is strung with white string lights that flicker like they're considering giving up. Mismatched picnic tables crowd the space, already occupied by people I vaguely recognize from the plaza—the yoga studio owner, a few financial-sector types in business casual, someone from the tea shop who looks like they've never seen fried food before and aren't sure how to proceed.
Colum stands near the bar, holding court with a rocks glass and entirely too much confidence.
I grab a cocktail from a passing server, something involving lime and poor decisions, and claim a corner seat where I can people-watch in peace.
The jukebox kicks into a hair-metal ballad. Two women from the yoga studio immediately start singing along, off-key and enthusiastic. The tea shop employee takes a single biteof a jalapeño popper and nearly ascends to another plane of existence.
This is exactly the kind of chaotic, low-stakes event I didn't know I needed.
I'm debating a second drink when the patio door opens and someone new walks in.
Tall. Broad. Leather jacket worn soft with age, stretched across shoulders that suggest he either lifts weights or moves furniture for a living. Dark hair, strong jaw, and a stone face, handsome but clearly orc. Faint greenish tint to his skin, orc, definitely, and the kind of casual, easy stride that says he's walked into a hundred bars exactly like this one.
Tattoos peek out from his collar. Tribal patterns, or maybe just decorative. Hard to tell in the string-light glow.
He scans the patio with the slow deliberation of someone who can't quite see clearly, then makes his way toward the bar.
Well.
I take a sip of my drink and absolutely do not stare.
Except I do. A little.
He orders something short and amber, leans against the bar, and promptly gets jostled by an over-enthusiastic Colum, who claps him on the shoulder and shouts something I can't hear over the music. The orc nods, says something brief, and Colum laughs like it's the funniest thing he's heard all week before bouncing off to harass the yoga crowd.
The orc stays at the bar. Alone.
You should not walk over there. You should finish your drink, eat one more popper, and leave like a responsible adult.
I'm halfway across the patio before I finish the thought.
"You look lost," I say, sliding onto the stool beside him.
He turns, and even through the sunglasses I can tell he's squinting at me.
"Do I?" His voice is low, rough-edged. Not unfriendly, just careful.
"Little bit. You've been scanning the room like you're looking for someone."
"Can't see much without—" He stops.Ahem. "Just getting my bearings."
