Page 26 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
Good.
The yoga studio's empty but pristine. Mirrors installed. Bamboo floors gleaming.
And then there's the corner unit.
Sparkle Beautyin cheerful cursive above the door. The business opened in it's permanent spot next to Fishborn Financial, but I've yet to meet the owner, since I park on the side of the building. The new sign's not installed yet as it leans against the window, waiting for someone with a ladder and better upper-body strength than me.
I peer through the glass.
Inside, it's chaos. Paint cans, drop cloths, a ladder lying sideways like it gave up. But there's organization underneath the mess. Shelving units already assembled. A counter half-painted in soft pink. Product displays sketched on butcher paper taped to the walls.
Someone knows what they're doing.
I check my notes.Cecie Newman. Temporarily closed the shop for the renovations. Needs electrical inspection before opening.
I make a note to follow up with the contractor.
A cargo box sits near the door, lid half-open. There's a post-it stuck to the side, handwriting looping and confident:
Glitter inventory, DO NOT OPEN unless you want to sparkle for a week.
Something about the handwriting— No. That's ridiculous.
I've seen a thousand post-its. A thousand hurried notes scrawled by a thousand different people. There's no reason this one should feel familiar.
I turn away.
The office isquiet when I return. Most of the team's already left for the day, desks dark and keyboards silent.
I settle at my desk and pull up the plaza budget. Everything's on track. Renovations are under budget by three percent. Tenant move-ins scheduled without conflicts. The welcome event planned for the end of the month.
Efficient. Orderly. Exactly as it should be.
Clarence—my pocket calculator, screen cracked but functional—sits next to my keyboard. I run a few quick calculations, double-checking the numbers even though I know they're correct.
You're stalling.
I am.
Because every time I close my eyes, I see that post-it.
Looping handwriting. Confident. A little messy around the edges, like someone wrote it while balancing three other things.
Glitter inventory.
I yank out my phone and scroll to the one photo I kept from that night.
It's stupid. I know it's stupid.
But I zoom in anyway, looking for, what? A sign? Proof that the woman I spent one perfect night with somehow exists in the same small orbit as me?
The photo's too blurry. Taken by someone at the party who thought drunk strangers were worth documenting. She's laughing, head back. I'm looking at her like she's the only person in the room.
Sis.
That's what she called herself when I asked. Voice light, teasing, like she was daring me to push.
I didn't.
