Page 40 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
Except—
Except thelaugh. When she thanked Colum earlier, she laughed, and something in my chest tightened with recognition I immediately dismissed as coincidence.
And theeyes. Hazel. Warm. The kind that crinkle at the corners when she smiles—which she does frequently, I notice, even in the midst of managing a toddler and making conversation with a stranger who's apparently forgotten how to blink normally. They're the same eyes that held mine across a hotel bar eleven months ago, bright with amusement and something that felt dangerously like possibility. The same eyes that laughed at whatever joke I'd slurred out in my Ridgepersona, back when I thought I could compartmentalize that night into a neat little box labeled "one-time indiscretion" and file it away.
And the?—
Perfume.
It hits me in waves as she moves closer to hand Colum back the napkin she'd borrowed. Faint. Barely there beneath the smell of baby shampoo and vanilla muffins.
Faint. Barely there beneath the smell of baby shampoo and vanilla muffins. But unmistakable once I notice it.
Hibiscus. Citrus. Something floral and clean.
The same scent that clung to the hotel sheets. The same scent I've been half-remembering for eleven months every time I walked past the plaza florist and caught a whiff of something similar enough to make me pause mid-stride like an idiot.
My hand moves without permission, reaching into my jacket pocket where I keep Clarence, my lucky calculator. My fingers brush the worn plastic casing. Press the cracked screen. The familiar texture grounds me just enough to force words out of my throat.
"Sis?"
It comes out wrong. Uncertain. A question instead of a statement.
Cecie's head snaps up. Her eyes meet mine, and for one suspended heartbeat, I see something flicker across her face. Surprise. Recognition.
Fear.
Then it's gone, replaced by polite confusion.
"Sorry?" She shifts Orry higher on her hip. "I think you meanCecie. Cecie Newman. We just met."
Her voice is steady. Friendly. Absolutely nothing like the breathless way she whisperedcall me Sisagainst my collarbone while I tried to remember how to form coherent sentencesthrough the haze of want and champagne and her hands tracing patterns across my chest.
Did I imagine it?
No. I'm certain of what I witnessed. My analytical mind doesn't make mistakes about faces, about the precise micro-expressions that flicker across someone's features before they can control them. Shesawme for that fraction of a second before the shutter came down.
The recognition was unmistakable. The way her pupils dilated, the subtle tension that seized her jaw, the sharp intake of breath she tried to mask with a smile. It was all there, written in the language of someone who remembers exactly where they've been and with whom.
She knows who I am. She knowsexactlywhat happened between us in that hotel room eleven months ago. Every carefully constructed moment. Every whispered confession. Every inch of skin and every breathless plea and every promise that felt so true in the darkness.
And she's choosing to pretend otherwise. Standing here in her store, surrounded by the ghosts of glitter and customer service politeness, she's deliberately erasing me from her present even though I'm standing directly in front of her.
The realization settles over me like frost spreading across a windowpane. She's not confused. She's not mistaken.
She's lying.
"Right." I push my glasses up my nose with one finger, a nervous habit I've never successfully broken. "Cecie. Of course. I'm—I'm Gunther. Ridgeway. I work with Colum."
"Nice to meet you, Gunther."
She extends her free hand. Professional. Polite.
I stare at it for a beat too long before my brain catches up and I shake it. Her palm is warm. Callused. The same hand thattraced my jaw in the dark and made me forget every careful rule I'd built around myself.
Let go.
I do. Too fast. My hand retreats to my pocket where Clarence waits, solid and reliable and utterly useless against the tidal wave of panic currently drowning my ability to think.
