Page 33 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
Then he smiles back.
It's tentative. Awkward. The kind of smile someone gives when they're not sure if they're doing it right.
But the dimple?—
Oh.
Right cheek. Same placement. Same depth.
My stomach does something complicated.
Coincidence. Lots of people have dimples. It doesn't mean anything.
Except Orry's skin, under the office fluorescents, shows that faint greenish tint more obviously than usual. And his eyes are practically neon compared to my boring hazel.
And Gunther's standing there, olive-green undertones in his own skin, dimple on full display, looking at my son like he's just seen a ghost.
"Well." My voice comes out too bright. "We should really?—"
Orry squeals.
Not a distressed squeal. Adelightedone.
He wriggles in the carrier, arms flailing, and before I can stop him, he lunges forward.
"Orry, no?—"
Too late.
His sticky muffin hand, because ofcoursehe found a muffin crumb somewhere in the carrier, shoots out and pats Gunther's cheek.
Directly on the dimple.
Gunther freezes.
Orry giggles. Pats again. Tiny fingers press into Gunther's face with the confidence of a baby who's never met a stranger.
Orry mumbles something and points his fingers through the hollow of Gunther's dimples.
It's not a real word. Just a sound. But it lands like a bomb. I peek at Orry. Colum gazes at Orry. Gunther looks at Orry. Then Gunther's eyes, pale green, wide behind his glasses, snap to mine. And I see it. Recognition. Calculation.Math.
He's doing math. Right now. I can practically see the spreadsheet unfolding in his head.
Eighteen months. Dimple. Eyes. Skin tone. Probability analysis.
"I—" Gunther's voice cracks. "I should?—"
He doesn't finish.
Just stands there, Orry's muffin-sticky hand still resting on his cheek, while the entire office seems to hold its breath.
Colum breaks the silence.
"Aww. He likes you, Gunther."
"Yes." Gunther's voice is faint. "Apparently."
I should laugh. Make a joke. Diffuse whatever this moment is.
