Page 128 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
He'd sighed in that particular way that meant he was capitulating. "Fine. But if someone asks for a photo?—"
"We'll smile politely and move on."
"And if they post it online?—"
"Then they post it online. We can't control that part."
So here we are. Loading up like we're preparing for an Arctic expedition instead of a thirty-minute walk to the plaza. Double stroller—the fancy one Colum bought us as a "moving-in gift" that I'm still not totally comfortable accepting. Diaper bag stuffed to bursting. Snacks in three separate containers because Orry's developed opinions about which crackers are acceptable at which times of day. Enough supplies for a week-long camping trip, minimum.
The plaza's absolutely packed when we arrive.
Vendors everywhere, their colorful awnings flapping in the spring breeze. Food trucks lined up like a delicious barricade. Live music drifting from the central stage—some local folk band playing something cheerful and forgettable. Kids running in packs, faces already painted, clutching balloons and oversized cookies.
People spot us immediately.
"It's them!"
"The orc family!"
"Oh my god, can we get a picture?"
Gunther tenses beside me, his hand tightening on the stroller handle. I squeeze his other hand, the one that's found mine without either of us discussing it.
"One picture," I say to the small crowd that's already forming, phones emerging from pockets like magic tricks. "Then we're walking, okay? We've got kids to wrangle."
We pose. I paste on my customer-service smile—the one that's gotten me through a thousand difficult interactions at Sparkle. Orry waves enthusiastically at the cameras, delighted by the attention in that unselfconscious toddler way. Mara sleeps through the whole thing, tiny fist curled against her cheek. Cameras click in a rapid-fire flutter that makes my teeth itch.
Then we move. Fast.
The Sparkle booth's set up near the fountain, exactly where I'd suggested to my assistant when she'd volunteered to run it. She's doing a brisk business—I can see the line from here—and waves frantically when she spots us.
"Boss! You actually came!"
"Needed out of the house before I lost my mind," I say, rolling the stroller to a stop beside her table. "How's business?"
"Killer. That new lip tint's flying off the shelf." She peers into the stroller, making the cooing noise that seems genetically programmed into humans around babies. "Oh my god, how's the baby? She's so tiny!"
"Adorable and exhausting in equal measure."
"The best kind." She grins. "Orry, you're looking very grown-up today."
Orry puffs up his little chest. "Big brudder!"
"The biggest," she agrees seriously.
Orry spots the face-painting station across the way and practically launches himself toward it. "Mama! Paint! Paint now!"
"Okay, okay. What do you want painted?"
"Hewmet!" He points at his head with both hands, emphatic.
Of course. The helmet obsession continues unabated.
We get in line behind a pair of twins getting matching butterflies. The artist running the station is the retired drag queen who sometimes does events for Sparkle, full stage makeup today despite the afternoon heat, complete with a magnificent feather boa in electric purple.
"Well, well, well." She looks up from her brushes, eyes sparkling with mischief. "The celebrities grace us with their presence."
"Don't start," I say, but I'm smiling.
