Page 99 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
"Cecie."
"Gunther."
He exhales. "I'm terrified. But. But I think he's right. We're doing this anyway. Might as well rip the band-aid off."
"Okay," I say. "We'll do it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I grab my coffee. Cold now. "But if anyone asks invasive questions about our sex life I'm blaming you."
"Why me?"
"Because you're the one who wore fake tattoos."
"That's not?—"
"Own it, Ridgeway."
He laughs. Actual laugh. The sound fills my tiny apartment. Orry stirs. Blinks awake. Sees us both and grins. Dimple on full display.My family.The thought slips in before I can stop it. Dangerous. Premature. Absolutely terrifying.
The door clicks shut behind Colum. The apartment feels too small suddenly. The air charged. Gunther's still holding Orry, who's now awake and blinking up at us with that sleepy, confused expression babies get when they wake up too fast.
I need to move. Todosomething with this energy crackling under my skin.
"Want some coffee?" I ask, already standing. Already heading for the kitchen. "I made a fresh pot before you got here."
"Sure," Gunther says. "Thanks."
I pour two mugs. Black for him. Oat milk for me. My hands shake just enough to make the liquid slosh. I grip the counter. Breathe.
This is fine. Everything's fine. We're adults. We can handle this.
Orry makes a grabby motion toward Gunther's glasses. Gunther laughs, that soft sound he reserves just for our son, and shifts Orry to his other hip.
"Careful, buddy," he murmurs. "These are my work eyes."
Orry gurgles. Drops the glasses. They dangle from one ear, crooked. Gunther doesn't even notice. Too busy making faces at Orry. Too busy beinggoodwith him. Natural. Like he's done this a thousand times instead of a handful.
I hand Gunther his coffee. Our fingers brush. A spark. A memory.
His hands on me that first night. Rough and sure and nothing like the careful way he holds Orry now.
I pull away. Too fast. Coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug. Burns my fingers.
"Shit."
"Here." Gunther sets Orry in his playpen. Grabs a dish towel. Hands it to me. "You okay?"
"Fine." I wipe my hand. "Just clumsy."
"Happens to the best of us."
Not tohim. Not to Gunther with his spreadsheets and his pocket protectors and his color-coded life. He doesn't spill things. Doesn't trip. Doesn't lose control.
Except that one night. When he was Ridge and I was Sis and we were both someone else.
I toss the towel aside. Grab my coffee. Take a sip. Too hot. Scalds my tongue.
