Page 42 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
She pauses. Doesn't turn around.
"I—"What?What am I supposed to say?Is that my child? Were you the woman from the hotel? Why didn't you tell me?
"Yes?" She looks back over her shoulder. Polite. Distant.
I open my mouth. Close it. My hand tightens around Clarence until the plastic casing digs into my palm hard enough to hurt.
"Welcome to the plaza," I finally manage. "If you need anything. Financial advice. Or. Anything."
Smooth, Ridgeway. Very smooth.
Something flickers in her expression. Too fast to read. Then she smiles, bright and empty.
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
She leaves.
I stand there like an idiot, watching the door close behind her, while my entire world recalibrates around a single, inescapable fact.
I might be a father.
"So."Colum leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head with the satisfied air of someone who just witnessed the social equivalent of a train wreck and plans to dine out on the story for weeks. "That was impressively awkward. Even for you."
I don't respond. Can't. My brain is too busy running calculations, trying to fit this new information into some kind of logical framework that makes sense.
Eleven months since the party. Babies take nine months. Sometimes ten. The math?—
The math works.
"Gunther." Colum waves a hand in front of my face. "Earth to my favorite number-cruncher. You in there?"
"I need to go."
"Go where? We have the tenant meeting in?—"
"Reschedule it."
I'm already moving toward the door, my body operating on autopilot while my mind spins uselessly through the same loop of impossible possibilities.
"Gunther." Colum's voice sharpens, cutting through the fog that's settled over my thoughts. "What's going on?"
I stop mid-stride toward the door. Turn back. He's watching me with actual concern now, the teasing theatricality gone from his face, replaced by something genuinely worried. The shift catches me off-guard, Colum in serious mode is rare enough to be unsettling.
"I think—" The words stick in my throat like I'm trying to swallow broken glass. My mouth goes dry. I can feel my pulse in my temples, a steady thrum of panic disguised as logic. "I need to check something. At home."
"Check what?" He leans forward, elbows on his desk, the picture of focused attention. Waiting. Demanding answers in that gentle-but-insistent way he has when he knows something significant is happening and refuses to be left in the dark.
Everything.The thought crashes through me like a wave. My entire life. My assumptions. The night I'd carefully compartmentalized and filed away under "mistakes best forgotten."
"I'll be back in an hour," I manage, my voice sounding thin and distant, like it's coming from somewhere outside my own body.
"Gunther—"
I don't wait for his response. Can't. My legs are already moving, carrying me toward the elevator with single-minded urgency, leaving Colum's protests to fade behind me as the office door swings shut.
My apartment is exactlyas I left it. Neat. Organized. Every surface clear except for the vintage calculators displayed on the bookshelf in chronological order by manufacture date.
I head straight for the bedroom. Pull open the closet. Dig past the color-coded shirts and perfectly creased slacks until I reachthe back corner where I keep a small cardboard box labeled "Miscellaneous."
