Page 29 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
"Take it up with the warehouse, lady."
He leaves.
I count the boxes. Twelve.Twelve.
Orry reaches for one, makes a grabby-hand motion.
"No. We are not keeping the beard oil."
He pouts.
Maybe I can return it. Or donate it. Or build a tiny beard-oil fort and live there forever.
I add "call supplier" to my mental list, which is already approximately forty-seven items long.
By noon,the shop's halfway decent.
The glitter's mostly contained. The displays are stocked with what Idohave. The sign outside is crooked but legible.
And I've only cried once, which feels like a win.
Orry's napping in his playpen, one chubby fist curled against his cheek. I watch him for a second, feel that familiar tug in my heart ashalf love, half terror that I'm doing everything wrong.
You're doing fine, I tell myself.You've got this.
The bell above the door jingles.
I turn, paste on my customer-service smile.
It's a woman in yoga pants and a oversized sweater, ponytail swinging. She looks around, eyes bright.
"Oh myGod, this is adorable!"
"Thanks! We're still setting up, but?—"
"Do you do brows?"
"I can. What are you thinking?"
She launches into a detailed description of her brow goals, which involve the words "feathered" and "Instagram-worthy" and "my sister's wedding."
I nod, slide my kit to me and get to work.
She talks the entire time. About her sister. The wedding drama. Her boyfriend who won't commit. Her yoga instructor who might be flirting with her.
I make appropriate noises, shape her brows, and silently thank the universe for sending me a chatty customer who doesn't notice the faint rose-gold shimmer still clinging to my apron.
She leaves happy. Tips well. Promises to come back.
One down.
The muffins areColum's fault.
He stopped by yesterday, handed me the keys with a flourish, and announced that Fishborn Financial would be "thrilled to support a fellow plaza entrepreneur."
Which was sweet.
But also slightly unhinged, because Colum doesn't do anything halfway.
