Page 39 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
I kiss his forehead. Breathe in his baby-shampoo smell.
Okay.
Okay.
I can do this. I've done harder things. Survived worse. I can talk to Gunther.
Figure out—What?What do I even want from this? Child support? Co-parenting? An explanation?An apology?
For what? For not recognizing me? For being someone different than I thought?
For making me feel—Safe.That night. In the hotel room. Ridge made me feelsafe.Wanted. Seen. And then I woke up and realized it was all a lie.
Except— Was it? Gunther's face, when Orry touched him, wasn't fake. That wasreal.Raw. Unguarded.Terrified.
Same as me.
I look down at Orry. He's chewing on my thumb now, drool soaking into my palm.
"Your dad's a financial analyst," I tell him. "With a pocket protector. And a calculator watch. And probably opinions about tax law."
Orry blows a raspberry.
"Yeah. That's what I thought too."
CHAPTER 6
GUNTHER
The muffin hand touches my cheek.
Sticky. Warm. Tiny fingers press directly over the dimple I've had my entire life, the one my mother used to call my "secret smile spot" when I was small enough to believe such things mattered.
The baby—Orry, Cecie called him—beams up at me with a grin that mirrors my own face with such precision that the air leaves my lungs in a single, silent rush.
Green-tinged skin. Crystal-clear eyes. And that dimple. Right cheek. Exactly where mine sits.
No.
I take a half-step back, breaking contact with the child's hand, and my hip connects with the edge of Colum's desk hard enough to rattle the novelty mug collection he keeps lined up like trophies. The ceramic clinks together in a discordant chorus that matches the sudden chaos unspooling inside my chest.
Cecie doesn't seem to notice. She's wiping Orry's hand with a napkin, murmuring something about "sticky disaster mode," her voice bright with the kind of practiced maternal cheer that barely masks exhaustion.
I should say something. Anything. Professional politeness. Normal human interaction.
Instead, I stand frozen, staring at this child who has myface, and try to remember how to breathe like a functional adult instead of a man whose entire reality just cracked down the middle.
The timeline.
Nine months. Maybe ten. I don't—I can't?—
The Ridge night was eleven months ago. Colum's celebration party. The hotel. The woman who laughed like summer storms and tasted like peppermint and called herselfSiswhen I asked her name in the hazy, champagne-soaked dark.
I look at Cecie Newman.
She's focused on Orry, not me, tucking the napkin into her apron pocket with one hand while balancing the child on her hip with practiced ease. Her hair's pulled into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Freckles dust across her nose and cheeks. Bright lipstick. A bandana tied around her head like she stepped out of a vintage poster about hard work and determination.
Nothing like the woman from that night.
