Page 9 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
Saturday.
The party. The plaza celebration. The moment I decided to stop being Gunther for one night and become someone else entirely.
"Fine."
"Fine? Gunther. My guy. I heard you left with a gorgeous brunette? They said she was dolled up, all glittery with her outfit and makeup."
I remember now. She'd mentioned it, laughing about how glitter gets everywhere, how she finds it in the strangest places weeks later.
I'd kissed her and tasted cherry lip gloss.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Colum's grin widens. "You're blushing. Orcs don't blush well but you're giving it your best shot."
"I'm not?—"
"You are. And I'm proud of you." He points his sandwich at me like a weapon. "You needed that. The whole Ridge thing? The rented motorcycle. Brilliant. I didn't think you'd actually go through with it. "
Neither did I.
It had been Colum's idea, of course. Two weeks before the party, sitting in his office after a particularly brutal day of investor calls and damage control.
"You need to loosen up," he'd said, pouring whiskey into coffee mugs because he couldn't find the proper glasses. "When's the last time you did something spontaneous?"
"I bought a new calculator without researching reviews first."
"That's depressing."
"It was very liberating."
He'd laughed, shaking his head. "I'm serious. You're thirty-three, you're brilliant, and you spend every weekend color-coding spreadsheets. Live a little."
"I live plenty."
"Name one wild thing you've done this year."
I couldn't.
So he'd proposed the idea. One night. No glasses, no pocket protector, no reputation to maintain. Henna tattoos from that artist in the plaza, leather jacket borrowed from his oversized brother, a fake name and a motorcycle I didn't actually know how to ride parked strategically in the lot.
"Be someone else," he'd said. "Just to see what it feels like."
It felt like flying.
I don't tellColum that part.
"It was fine," I repeat, focusing on my sandwich. "We talked. I left."
"Talked." He draws out the word, skeptical. "For six hours?"
Six hours.
Had it really been that long?
We'd left the party around nine. I'd walked her to my motorcycle, helped her with the helmet I'd bought specifically as a prop, then admitted I'd had too much to drink to ride safely.
We'd talked in the room first. About the plaza, about her business, about Colum's terrible habit of throwing parties that were half celebration and half networking ambush. She was funny. Quick. Every time I thought I had her figured out, she'd say something that surprised me.
