Page 1 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
CHAPTER 1
CECIE
The woman trying to shoplift eyeshadow palettes has clearly never committed a crime before.
She's hovering near my clearance bin like a heron stalking minnows, bent at the waist, one hand buried in discount glitter bombs while the other clutches a handbag the size of a small refrigerator. Amateur. I don't even need to look up from restocking my lip stain display to clock the theft in progress.
"Those shades wash you out." I slide a trio of berry-toned tubes into their acrylic holder. "Try the coral family. Third row, left side."
The woman jerks upright. Two compacts clatter back into the bin.
"I wasn't, I mean, I was just?—"
"Browsing. I know." I finally meet her eyes and offer my most disarming smile. The one that sayswe're all friends here, but I will absolutely ban you if you test me. "Coral. Trust me on this."
She scurries toward the corals like I've absolved her sins. Which, technically, I have. She'll buy something now out of guilt, and I'll make rent for another week on this glorified folding table I'm calling Sparkle Beauty.
Pop-up retail. The business model of champions and the deeply delusional.
I smooth my bandana, today's is covered in tiny lipstick prints,and survey my kingdom. Eight feet of rented plaza space wedged between Fishborn Financial and a specialty tea shop that only sells beverages that taste like punishment. My entire inventory fits in six plastic bins that I haul here every morning in my hatchback, and every evening I pack it all back up like a glittery Cinderella fleeing the ball.
Temporary. Scrappy. Mine.
The woman emerges with three coral lipsticks and a guilty flush.
"You're a lifesaver," she says, thrusting cash at me.
"Just doing the Lord's work, one undertone at a time." I count her change, add a sample packet of highlighter because she looks like she needs a win today, and send her off with a cheerful wave.
The second she's gone, I slump against my table and check my phone. Two hours until I can pack up. My feet already hate me, my lower back is staging a formal protest, and I'm ninety percent sure there's glitter in my bra.
Again.
Glamorous entrepreneur life.
"Cecie!"
I don't even have to turn around to identify the voice. Colum Fishborn approaches all human interactions like a game show host seeing the camera's red light flick on.
"Colum." I straighten and plaster on my customer-service smile. "What can I do for you? Finally ready to admit you need a skincare routine?"
He clutches his chest in mock offense. Today's blazer is navy with contrast stitching, worn over a T-shirt that readsFISCALLY IRRESPONSIBLE. The man dresses like a Pinterest board gained sentience.
"My skin isglowing, thank you very much. No, I come bearing gifts." He whips out two cocktail napkins printed with an address. "You. Me. Victory celebration. Tonight."
I take one napkin and squint at the smudged text. "The Iron Horse? Isn't that the motorcycle bar off Highway 9?"
"The very same! I've rented out the back patio." He spreads his arms wide, nearly smacking a passing customer. "Fishborn Financial has officially survived its first quarter in Poplar Springs Plaza, and I'm throwing a party to celebrate not going bankrupt. Free drinks, fried appetizers, and the kind of questionable jukebox choices that build character."
"Colum, I barely know you. We've exchanged maybe six conversations, half of which involved you asking if I sell beard oil."
"Which youshould. Untapped market." He taps the napkin still in my hand. "Come anyway. Bring a friend. Bring several friends. The more bodies, the better the photo ops for my social media."
Ah. There it is.
"You want me to be atmosphere."
"I want you to enjoy free jalapeño poppers and bear witness to my glory." He flashes that wide, shameless grin. "Is that so wrong?"
