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Page 12 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc (Monsters of Saltford Bay #1)

Chapter Nine

Cassidy

It's been a week since work started at the Saltwater Lodge, and right now, the biggest decision of my life is staring me right in the face.

Well, I'm being a bit of a drama queen right now.

At least, it's the biggest decision I'll be making today. Hopefully.

Who knew working on renovations with a grumpy orc would lead to a terminal case of decision fatigue?

At least, said grumpy orc is not shy about making said decisions for me.

He already convinced me—eh, no, not convinced, but strong-armed me—into salvaging the old cabinets.

And I'm forced to admit that he was right about the oak being timeless.

Gerralt spent the last two days refinishing them and sanding them to a baby-butt smooth finish, and I can't believe my eyes every time I look at them.

The man is not only my fairy-orc-mother, but he's a magician as well. One that speaks in grunts and hammers at stuff while wearing a perpetual frown, but a magician nonetheless.

But right now, I don't need a magician. I need to decide on the color of the walls in my new kitchen.

Come on, Cass. You've been staring at that wall so long your coffee is cold.

Four squares of sage green, each slightly different, are painted on the wall above the kitchen sink. The names alone are enough to make me second-guess myself: Seafoam Whisper, Mossy Haven, Enchanted Eucalyptus, and Witch's Hearth.

I cross my arms, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I tilt my head. I already picked two gallons of the Witch's Hearth yesterday evening, but right now, with the early morning light filtering in, I'm not so sure. It's like the subtle differences between them are mocking me.

Choose wrong, and you'll regret it forever, I think. Although, to be fair, I'm just being a drama queen again. I could always repaint it if I don’t like it, but it’s extra work and extra money.

Money that is running out faster than I can scream bankruptcy !

Gerralt's truck rumbles as it pulls into the driveway, and I straighten, wiping my hands on my jeans.

My stomach does its little flutter in the same annoying way it always does whenever Gerralt is in proximity, but I resolutely stay where I am, resisting the urge to bolt to the window like an overexcited puppy.

Instead, I pick up a paintbrush and pretend to be thoughtfully considering my choices .

It's going to be Witch's Hearth, by the way.

The heavy thud of his boots echoes in the hallway, and then he appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he owns the place.

His arms are crossed over his chest, his usual scowl firmly in place.

He’s all broad shoulders and broody male energy, the worn t-shirt he wears stretched across his chest doing dangerous things to my imagination. And my belly. And my panties.

Jeez, I need a cold shower.

“What’s this?” he grunts, nodding toward the wall.

“I’m trying to decide which shade of sage green to use for the walls." I wave the paintbrush in the direction of the samples. “Thoughts?”

His brows knit together like I just asked him to recite poetry. “They’re all green.”

“Well, yes,” I say, biting back a smile. “But they’re different greens. See?” I point to each square in turn, reciting the color name. His scowl only deepens as I continue, like the silly paint color names are a personal insult to his intelligence.

“This one’s lighter; this one’s got blue undertones; this one’s warmer, and this one…”

“Still green,” he interrupts, his tone flat.

"Come on, Grumpy!" I tease, planting my hands on my hips. “Don't be such a cliché. Seafoam Whisper is nothing like Enchanted Eucalyptus. Help a girl out. Give me your opinion.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, I think he’s going to walk away. But then he sighs, stepping closer to the wall. Closer to me. I can't help the way my heart beats just a tiny bit faster as his large form looms right behind me. He's so tall, he can look right above my head .

He glances at each square, his expression unreadable, before finally pointing to one. I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure it’s at random.

“That one.”

I follow his finger. Seafoam Whisper. Ugh.

“Interesting choice,” I say, tapping my chin with the paintbrush. “But don’t you think it’s a bit, I don’t know, too coastal? This is supposed to be a cozy lodge, not a beach house.”

He grunts, which could mean anything from You’re right to I don’t care .

“What about this one?” I ask, pointing to Witch’s Hearth. “It’s got a kind of moody, mysterious vibe. Like something you’d see in a cottage owned by a wise old witch who brews potions and talks to crows.”

He gives me a look that says he thinks I need to get my head checked by a professional, one eyebrow lifting.

“You’re picking a color because it looks like what a witch would like?”

“Well, if you say it like that,” I say brightly, grinning up at him. “I kind of am! Sets the tone, you know?”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he mutters, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Well, as long as it doesn't turn me into a frog, I'm fine with it.”

For a moment, I'm left speechless.

“Is that a joke I hear? Did you bang your head on your way here? Should I be concerned and call a doctor?”

He doesn’t respond, just grunts again and heads toward the tools he left on the counter.

But as I pop the lid off the paint can and start pouring it into the tray, I swear I see him glance back at me with a smile on his lips that nearly shatters my soul right in half and leaves me dead with my head in a paint can. It's that gorgeous.

But it's gone too soon and I force myself not to make a big deal about it. Just because I'm not sure I'll survive a single second if he actually smiles at me like that again.

I concentrate on my task, remembering the videos I watched that morning about how to paint a wall.

It shouldn’t be too hard. I swipe the roller across the wall in a wide arc, feeling instantly accomplished as the sage green covers the dingy beige.

A few more strokes in, though, and things start to go awry.

The paint gathers in uneven clumps, dripping down in ugly streaks.

I press harder, thinking I can smooth it out, but now the roller skips, leaving bare patches that smear into the wet paint.

I stop, then stand in front of the wall, my hands on my hips as my heart sinks all the way to the soles of my feet. This isn't going the way it's supposed to go.

Of course it's not. What was I thinking? I've never done any real manual work before.

"So, you're going for the whole Goblin Puke look on your wall, I see."

Gerralt leans against the cabinets, arms braced on the new countertop he's about to install. How he plans to actually do such a feat is way over my pay grade.

Apparently, so is the act of painting. I turn to glare at him and all the orc does is look me up and down like I’ve been finger-painting those walls. To be fair, my work would make a kindergartener sad.

His t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his perpetual scowl is firmly in place, but it doesn’t have its usual bite.

I try not to stare at the way his muscles stretch his sleeves or how his abs slim down to a V in the front of his tucked in t-shirt.

I'm not saying I'm succeeding, just that I'm trying.

Who am I kidding? I'm looking at him like he's a cupcake covered in frosting and I'm about to lick him all over. It's been a while since I had sex, okay? And it's been even longer since I had good sex. I don't even remember what it feels like, honestly.

"You never painted a wall before, have you?"

"Nope." I grab the roller and dip it into the paint again, ignoring the way my heart does a little jump at the gravelly tone of his voice. "It's not supposed to be this hard. You just roll the paint on the wall, right?"

The roller drips paint as I point it at him, and a single drop lands on the floor. His eyebrow twitches, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning in frustration.

"Why don't you just leave this up to me, Princess?" he asks with that tone that says I'm messing up and there's nothing I can do that can make it right.

That tone makes my temper flare and all of a sudden, all I want in the world is to show him that I'm not the helpless city girl he thinks I am.

"Fat chance, Grumpy," I fire back, turning to face the biggest stretch of wall in the small room. "I'm not giving up that easily. This is my place, and I'm not going to just stand back and watch."

And that’s not even counting the fact that I don’t have the money to just stand back and watch. But this is none of Gerralt’s business .

Gerralt's green face remains scrunched up in a way that says he believes I have as much chance at becoming a competent painter as I have to sprout wings on my back and flutter around.

The next few minutes are best described as a drippy sage-green mess and a whole lot of sweat from a curvy brunette. So much I'm kinda scared I'm going to dissolve right there on the spot.

"Stop." Gerralt’s voice cuts through the room, sharp but not unkind. I glance over my shoulder to see him shaking his head, arms now hanging at his sides, the countertop almost installed. Jeez, that man is not only delicious-looking, but he’s efficient as heck, too.

"You're doing it all wrong."

"Well, I'm not quitting," I retort, planting one hand on my hip while still holding the roller in the other. "I’m pretty sure I'll figure it out somewhere along the way."

His sigh could fill the whole room.

"Trim first," he says, stalking toward me with the deliberate grace of someone who’s too big to make sudden movements without breaking things. He takes the roller from my hands by the tips of his fingers, like it's going to bite him.

Or just because it's so caked in paint, there's nowhere clean to hold it.

"You paint the edges and corners first with a brush. Then you roll." He jerks his chin at the roller. “Let's just wash this poor thing and start again with the brush.”

I glance back at the wall and sure enough, the paint is streaked with uneven drips, like it's been sobbing its green heart out. I groan.

"Do the trim first. Got it. "

"But you need to learn to do it the right way." He grabs a clean brush from the supplies on the counter and hands it to me. "Now, dip it only about a third in and wipe the excess off."

I roll my eyes but take the brush, dipping it into the paint. With a sigh, I crouch down to start on the baseboards, determined to prove I don’t need his hovering.

"Wait." Gerralt’s voice is closer this time, and I feel the heat of him at my back before I even look up.

"I’ve got this," I snap, a little breathless as I swipe at the trim, only to smear a streak of green onto the floor.

"Just let me help you." He crouches beside me, his large hand covering mine as he steadies the brush. My breath catches as his fingers wrap around mine, his grip firm but careful. His touch is warm, his skin rough against mine, and suddenly, the air in the room feels too thick.

"Hold it like this," he says, his voice lower, softer. He adjusts my grip, angling the brush just so. "Light pressure. Don’t smear the paint, just spread. Better to dip it in paint again than to smear it or put too much on your brush."

I nod, barely hearing his words over the sudden pounding of my pulse. He’s so close now I can feel the heat radiating from his body, his broad chest just inches from my back. His scent—pine and something warm and earthy, something masculine and alluring—fills my senses, making me lightheaded.

"Try again," he says in a voice so low it’s almost a whisper, his breath brushing against my ear.

I shiver, my hands trembling slightly as I let him guide me through the next stroke.

The line is clean, perfect, and I should feel victorious, but all I can focus on is the way his touch lingers, the way his thumb brushes against mine as he pulls back.

"There," he says, standing up and stepping away from me. "Now you can finish the trim."

"Thanks," I manage, my voice a little too high-pitched. I stare at the wall, refusing to look at him, afraid he’ll see the flush in my cheeks. Or worse, the way my body still buzzes from his touch, like the aftermath of an electric shock.

"You’ve got paint on your face," he says after a beat, his tone gruff but quieter than usual.

"Huh?" I glance at him, and before I can react, he’s stepping forward again, his thumb swiping gently across my cheek. His touch is fleeting, but I don’t miss the way his gaze goes to my mouth.

"There," he mutters, stepping back as quickly as he’d approached. His expression is unreadable, his amber eyes shadowed as he turns away and busies himself with the countertops. "Get to work. That wall’s not gonna paint itself."

I nod, gripping the paintbrush like it’s a lifeline as I focus on the wall again. As I paint, I steal glances at him from time to time. He doesn’t look at me once, his focus entirely on his work. But there’s a tension in his shoulders, a stiffness in the way he moves that wasn’t there before.

For the first time, I wonder if Gerralt Banesman is as unaffected by me as he seems.

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