Page 48 of Orc Me, Maybe
Standing this close to him in the amber dusk, the scent of magic still lingering in the air like honeysuckle and heat. His eyes dark and unreadable. His presence magnetic in that serious, self-contained way he has. The kind that says I will carry this whole world if I must.
And I want to say something witty, something professional, but what comes out is, “You look good today.”
His brow lifts. “That so?”
“Don’t get smug,” I mutter.
“I wasn’t aware I could look anything other than terrifying.”
“You usually aim for terrifying.”
“And you usually aim for perfect.”
That catches me. I look away, fingers tightening on my clipboard. “I just want things to go well.”
He’s quiet a moment. Then, softer than I expect, “They are.”
When I glance up, his gaze is gentler. The kind of look that brushes against skin and bone and makes you forget every list you've ever written.
My heart stutters. I swallow. “Torack?—”
“Julie.”
He steps closer. Barely an inch. But it changes the air.
“I keep trying to stay professional,” he says, voice low. “But every time I look at you…”
My breath catches.
“You’re not just holding this place together. You’re changing it. How do I stand in front of that and not reach for it?”
I don’t mean to step closer. But I do. We’re toe to toe now. The world narrows to pine and fading sunlight and his hand, lifting, pausing at my jaw.
“I’ve been scared to want you,” I whisper.
“I’m not scared,” he says. “Not anymore.”
He leans in and we both jump when Lillian runs up with a giant frog in her arms.
“Look what I caught! It burps spells!” Torack steps back instantly, clearing his throat.
“Time to round up enchanted fauna.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. And blush. And almost trip on my own clipboard backing away. But when I turn, he’s still watching. And I know. We’re not avoiding it anymore.
I know I'll see him tonight.
CHAPTER 20
JULIE
Ihold my least wrinkled blouse against my chest—pale blue, three-quarter sleeves, buttons straining slightly because I bought it two stress-snacks ago. “Sexy,” I mutter. “If sexy means ‘capable of filing TPS reports underwater.’”
I swap my practical flats for knee-high hiking boots. Lace them slow, imagining Torack’s eyes following the bow I tie just below my calf. Then comes the belt—thick leather, meant for securing climbing gear. I loop it low on my hips, tucking the hem of my blouse to expose a sliver of stomach when I reach for things.
“Subtlety’s dead,” I tell my reflection. “Long live desperation.”
A knock rattles the plywood door hard enough to make my clipboard slide off the cot. I catch it mid-air, the metal clip snapping against my thumb.
