Page 8 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
The engine turns over on the second try. I drive out of the parking lot and head toward home, the rising sun painting thesky in shades of pink and gold that feel aggressively cheerful given my current state of existential crisis.
My apartment smellslike stale coffee and the lavender plugin I bought to mask the permanent scent of glitter that's seeped into every surface.
I kick off my shoes, peel off my dress, and stand in the shower until the water runs cold. Washing away the evidence. The smell of leather and whiskey and Ridge's cologne, something woody and clean that I can still taste when I swallow.
Stop it.
I'm not doing this. I'm not pining after some random guy I met at a work party. This was a blip. An aberration. A one-time lapse in judgment that I'm filing away under "things we don't talk about" right next to that regrettable pixie cut in college and the time I tried to make my own lip gloss and gave myself a rash.
By the time I'm dressed in clean clothes, leggings, oversized sweater, no bra because I've earned that much comfort, I've almost convinced myself I mean it.
CHAPTER 2
GUNTHER
The spreadsheet refuses to cooperate.
Column G won't align with Column H, the formula in J-14 keeps throwing an error I can't trace, and my coffee's gone cold in the mug Colum gave me last Christmas. "World's Okayest Analyst," it says. He thought it was hilarious.
I push my glasses up and rub the bridge of my nose where they've left a red mark.
Focus.
The quarterly projections are due tomorrow. Colum needs these numbers for the investor meeting, and I can't show up with a half-finished mess just because I'm distracted by?—
Her.
The woman from the party. Sis.
I close my eyes and she's there again. Bright lipstick, freckles across her nose, that laugh that sounded like she was surprised to be having fun. The way she looked at Ridge like he was interesting instead of dangerous.
The way she looked atme, even though she had no idea it was me.
My phone rings. Colum, naturally.
Status update? Investors want sexy graphs.
I type back: Graphs aren't sexy. They're informative.
YOU'RE NO FUN
That's why you pay me.
Three dots. Then: Lunch in 10. Don't argue.
The clock shows 11:47. Close enough.
Colum's ideaof lunch involves the sandwich shop two blocks over and an interrogation disguised as friendly conversation.
"You look terrible," he says, sliding into the booth across from me with a turkey club and enough enthusiasm for both of us.
"Thank you."
"I mean it as a compliment. You're usually so..." He waves his hand vaguely. "Pressed. But today you've got this rumpled thing happening. Very human."
I take a bite of my roast beef to avoid responding. Colum interprets silence as encouragement.
"So." He leans forward, grinning. "How was Saturday?"
