Page 22 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
"What do you mean?"
"Fishborn Financial. That's who threw the party, right? Fancy finance guys playing dress-up. If your Ridge was at that party, he probably works there."
My stomach drops. "You think he's a?—"
"Accountant in a costume? Yeah. Happens more than you'd think. Boys who work in offices all day, get a little drunk, decide they want to be dangerous for a night." She shrugs. "Check the company directory. Worst case, you embarrass some poor number-cruncher. Best case, you find your baby daddy."
Orry chooses that moment to wake up and release a hiccup that echoes through the bar like a tiny, judgmental commentary on my life choices.
Several patrons turn to look.
"He's perfect," the bartender says, softer. "Worth tracking down his dad for."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. And honey? Next time you're hunting down a one-night stand, maybe leave the baby at home. Less dramatic that way."
I pay for the ginger ale I didn't drink and leave.
Outside,the air smells like rain.
I adjust Orry's carrier, making sure he's tucked in warm, and start walking. Not toward home. Not toward the shop.
Just walking.
Fishborn Financial.
The name rattles around my head like a marble in a jar. I've walked past the storefront a hundred times. Rent my store from the owner. Seen Colum coming and going with his ridiculous blazers and theatrical energy. Noticed the steady stream of professionals in sensible shoes and button-ups.
What if one of them was Ridge?
What if the male I slept with wasn't some mysterious motorcycle-riding orc, but an accountant who wore fake tattoos and pretended to be someone else for a night?
The thought makes me furious and sad in equal measure.
Furious because I fell for it. Let myself believe in the fantasy of a stranger who wanted me without complications.
Sad because it means Ridge, the version I remember, confident and present and real, never existed at all.
"Your dad might be a fraud," I tell Orry, who's dozing against my chest with the sublime peace of someone who has zero responsibilities. "How do you feel about that?"
He hiccups again. Soft and sweet.
And suddenly I'm crying.
Not pretty tears. Big, ugly sobs that shake my shoulders and make my nose run. I sink onto a bench outside a closed boutique and let it pour out—all the fear and exhaustion and loneliness I've been holding at bay for months.
I don't know his name.
I don't know where he lives.
I don't know if he'd even want to meet Orry, this perfect little person we made together during one reckless, beautiful night.
And I'm so tired of doing this alone.
A hand touches my shoulder.
I jerk back, swiping at my face, and find an older woman standing beside the bench. Human, silver hair, kind eyes.
