Page 24 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
I unlock the door one-handed, navigate the narrow hallway without turning on lights, and deposit Orry in his crib with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb.
He doesn't wake.
Small mercies.
I collapse on my bed, still fully dressed, and grab my phone.
Fishborn Financial.
The website is sleek and professional. Stock photos of diverse people smiling at spreadsheets. A mission statement about "building community wealth through ethical investing." A staff directory with headshots and job titles.
I scroll through faces. A couple of orcs, mostly humans though.
Analysts. Associates. Junior partners. Senior partners.
None of them look familiar.
But then again, Ridge wore sunglasses the entire night. I'm not sure I'd recognize him even if he was staring me in the face.
I flip off the browser and open my photos instead.
There's exactly one picture from that night. Blurry, taken by someone at the party who thought drunk strangers dancing was Instagram-worthy. I'm laughing, head thrown back. Ridge has his hand on my waist, face turned just enough that you can see his jaw but not his full features.
It's not enough.
I zoom in anyway, studying the curve of his smile. The breadth of his shoulders. The way he's looking at me like I'm the only person in the room.
"Where are you?" I whisper to the pixelated image.
Orry hiccups from the crib.
And I start to cry again.
CHAPTER 4
GUNTHER
Numbers make sense.
That's the thing about spreadsheets. They don't lie. They don't wear fake tattoos or pretend to be someone they're not. They're honest in a way people rarely manage.
The quarterly report on my screen flashes, watching projected revenue climb in neat, predictable increments. Fishborn Financial has had a good year. Colum's aggressive expansion into community development projects is paying off. The numbers prove it.
My phone turns on.
Colum: Conference room. Five minutes. Bring the plaza files.
I gather the relevant documents, lease agreements, renovation budgets, tenant applications, and head down the hall.
The conference room smells like expensive coffee and Colum's latest impulse purchase: a diffuser pumping out something calledExecutive Clarity. It smells like eucalyptus and expensive mall counter perfume.
"Gunther!" Colum spreads his arms wide like I've returned from war instead of walking twenty feet. "My favorite orc with a calculator."
"I preferfinancial analyst."
"Boring. Sit."
I sit.
