Page 23 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc (Monsters of Saltford Bay #1)
Chapter Eighteen
Cassidy
Golden light filters through the thin curtains, warming my skin as consciousness slowly returns.
I'm wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, my body deliciously sore in places I'd forgotten could feel this way. For the first time in months, maybe years, maybe ever, I feel like I can breathe. I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders and I’m nearly floating with the relief of it.
Something heavy and warm presses against my side, attracting my attention. A muscular green arm wraps around my waist. My backside is pressed flush against a male body whose undeniable arousal presses against my cheeks.
Gerralt.
My muscles tense briefly, a moment of disorientation clouding my mind before memories flood back in a heated rush: Gerralt's massive hands exploring every inch of me, his tusks grazing my neck, the weight of him above me, the feeling of him inside me.
The way he'd looked at me like I was something precious and rare.
My heart stutters at the memory.
The scent of him surrounds me, male and soothing. It mingles with the lavender of my laundry soap, creating a combination that makes my belly quiver and heat spread between my legs, my desire instantaneous despite the soreness between my thighs.
I shift, turning around to find Gerralt already awake, watching me. His amber eyes catch the morning light in a way that steals my breath, turning them into pools of liquid gold. His features, usually set in hard lines and frowns, look softer now, relaxed in a way I've never seen before.
He’s so breathtakingly handsome like that, with the golden light of the dawn on his relaxed face, his tusks gleaming and his fleshy, hard lips pulled just so at the corner of his mouth. My heart flutters and heat spills between my legs as his cock twitches against my stomach.
I feel the grin pull on my lips and I know it’s a wicked, bad-girl type of grin by the way Gerralt’s gaze heats up immediately. His hand, which moved to my back when I twisted around, presses me closer and my breathing immediately speeds up.
"You snore," his deep, sleep-rough voice rumbles through the quiet room, amusement evident in his tone .
I blink, outrage replacing arousal in an instant. "I do not!"
A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth.
“You do,” he insists as his hand pins me right in place, refusing to allow me to wriggle myself away in my indignation. “Like a cave troll. But it's alright. It's oddly charming, like sleeping next to an airport or race car track. It's that loud.”
I scoff, propping myself up on one elbow to glare at him properly. His dark hair is tousled from sleep, he has a pillow crease under one eye, and his massive chest is bare above the sheet that barely covers his hips.
He looks good enough to give good girls bad ideas. And I’m not that good of a girl to begin with.
This version of him, teasing, unguarded, makes something in my chest tighten almost painfully.
I want to ask what last night meant to him, if this changes things, if there's even a "this" to change. But the words stick in my throat, too big and too scary to voice yet.
Instead, I roll my eyes and slap his chest lightly. My palm tingles at the contact with warm skin over solid muscle.
"You're lucky I'm letting that slide," I inform him, trying to keep my voice serious despite the smile threatening to break through. "If I snore, then you? You sleep like a rock. I could have gotten up, moved to another state, and you wouldn't have noticed."
His expression shifts, amber eyes suddenly intense as they lock with mine. "Princess, I would have woken up the moment your skin left mine."
The air between us grows heavy with unspoken things.
His large hand finds my leg beneath the sheet, trailing up to my hip, then my waist. His touch leaves fire in its wake, goosebumps rising across my skin.
I lean down, unable to resist, and press my lips to his.
His growing arousal presses against my stomach, and heat pools between my thighs in response.
Just as his hand slides up to cup my breast, my stomach releases a loud, embarrassing growl.
Gerralt stops, then laughs out loud, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine. It's a beautiful sound, one I've never heard. He sits up, taking me with him, sheet falling away to reveal every glorious inch of him.
"Hungry?" he asks, one eyebrow raised.
"Starving," I admit, heat rising to my cheeks.
"Good. Stay put. I'll make you something."
I watch in stunned silence as he stands, giving me a spectacular view of his perfect, muscular ass, grabs his pants off the floor, pulls them on, then heads toward the door.
After he disappears into the hallway, I flop back onto the bed, pressing my hands to my flaming cheeks. Last night wasn't some heated dream. It really happened. Gerralt and I crossed that line, and my entire world shifted. In fact, it feels brighter somehow, more vibrant.
The sound of cabinet doors opening in the kitchen pulls me from my thoughts.
I grab Gerralt's t-shirt from where it landed on the hardwood floor last night and pull it over my head.
It smells like him, and it hangs off me like a tent all the way to my knees, but I love the feel of it against my skin.
When I pad barefoot into the kitchen, Gerralt is already in full chef mode. He's opened the fridge and pantry, assessing what I have on hand, his massive frame dwarfing the space .
"Can I help?" I ask, taking a seat at the counter.
He grunts, pulling eggs, bacon, and cheese from the refrigerator. "Coffee maker?"
I point to the cabinet where I keep the grounds, and he nods, moving with surprising grace for someone so large. Then begins preparing what appears to be a breakfast fit for an entire football team.
Seriously. The amount of food he’s preparing leaves me wide-eyed and wordless.
Soon the kitchen fills with the mouthwatering scent of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee. My stomach growls again, louder this time, and Gerralt shoots me an amused glance over his shoulder before a warm mug appears right in front of me.
"I didn’t picture you for a cook." I can't keep the awe out of my voice as I watch him expertly flip eggs in the pan. I take a sip of coffee and groan in satisfaction. Perfect.
"Orcs have tremendous appetites," he explains, his focus on the stovetop. "We love food. Good food. Lots of it."
I chuckle at this and nod. With the size of most orcs, it’s not surprising they eat a lot.
I'm transfixed by the sight of his hands, the same powerful hands that rebuilt the kitchen all around us, now carefully transferring eggs to plates with a gentleness that makes my heart flutter. His movements are precise and practiced, nothing wasted.
A soft meow draws my attention downward. Marigold weaves between Gerralt's legs, her tail straight up in the air like an exclamation point .
Without breaking stride, Gerralt tears off a small piece of bacon and tosses it down to her. She pounces on it with a purr so loud I can hear it from across the room.
"Traitor," I mutter at her. "I spent weeks trying to get you to come inside, and he shows up with bacon and suddenly you're his best friend."
"She knows quality when she sees it," Gerralt rumbles, placing a plate in front of me loaded with eggs, bacon, and toast. The eggs are perfectly cooked, the yolks still slightly runny—exactly how I like them.
"Thank you," I say, genuinely touched by the gesture. "This looks amazing."
He nods, bringing his own plate, piled considerably higher, to sit beside me at the counter. For a few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the clink of forks against plates and Marigold's persistent purring at our feet.
“Why did you divorce your ex-husband?” Gerralt asks point-blank. He’s not for beating around the bush, for sure.
The question catches me off guard. I take a sip of coffee to buy myself time, considering how much to share. Something about the quiet morning, about the way he's looking at me like he really wants to know, makes me brave.
Gerralt waits, giving me space to continue at my own pace. I take a deep breath.
"I was supposed to be at a decorator’s conference that weekend, but my flight was canceled and I couldn’t book another till the next morning, so I came home.
" The words come out flat, emotionless, though the memory still stings.
"That’s when I caught Jason cheating on me with his secretary. In our house. Our bed."
I scoff and the familiar anger rises in my throat, but it doesn’t have the same sting as it usually does. I shake my head.
"I left that day. Just packed what would fit in my suitcase while he tried to talk me into staying.
Then I walked out. Never went back." I swallow hard, memories flooding back.
My fingers tighten around my mug. "I refused to even talk to him after that. Everything was done through the lawyers. It was pretty easy since I didn’t want anything from him.
I have no interest in his money or anything he can give me.
I didn't ask for anything except my half of that house he betrayed me in.
The house we bought together, that I helped pay for.
That's all I want. What's rightfully mine so I can start over.
But he's dragging his feet on signing the sale papers, and I'm running out of time. "
Gerralt's jaw tightens, his tusks more pronounced with the tension.
"Why Saltford Bay?" Gerralt prods, his amber eyes curious as they meet mine. "Why uproot your whole life to start again here?"
"I stayed with Silvia for a while, but my life in Portland didn’t feel like mine anymore.
I realized that as long as I was staying put, I could never truly be free of him.
That’s when I found the Saltwater Lodge through an online auction website.
" I laugh, but it’s a sad little laugh. “I guess it says a lot about me, right? Buying this place without much of a plan.”
I realize I've never told anyone the whole story before. Not Silvia, not my mother, no one. Saying it aloud makes me feel raw, exposed, but oddly lighter, too.
Gerralt doesn't immediately respond. He doesn't offer platitudes or try to fix it. He just listens, his amber eyes never leaving mine .
"You did the right thing," he finally says, his deep voice rumbling with sincerity. “Leaving like that. You deserve to build a life of your own choosing.”
"My mother strongly disagrees." I snort, though it comes out hollow. “She doesn’t understand why I can’t just stay in Portland and turn over a new leaf there.”
His brow furrows, tusks jutting out slightly with his frown. "Maybe she doesn't understand that sometimes, you need to shed your old skin for the new one to shine."
I stare at him, shocked into silence by the unexpected wisdom in his words. There's something about the way he says it, with such certainty, such understanding, that makes me feel seen in a way I haven't in years. Maybe ever.
Before I can respond, a sharp knock at the door breaks the moment.
I glance at Gerralt, who looks equally confused. We didn't hear a car coming up the drive, and it's too early for deliveries.
"Are you expecting someone?" he asks, pushing back from the counter.
"No." I shake my head, rising from my stool. "Maybe it's the sheriff following up with news about Bront Billings?"
We approach the door together, Gerralt slightly behind me but close enough that I can feel his warmth at my back. I open the door cautiously, half expecting more unwelcome surprises.
Not much could have prepared me for what I see.
Standing on my porch is a tall, elderly orc woman.
Her skin is a paler shade of green than Gerralt's, lined with age but still vibrant, and she smiles so widely that her tusks almost touch her cheekbones.
A thick gray braid wraps over one shoulder, falling almost to her waist. Her amber eyes, a familiar shade, sparkle with intelligence and humor.
Her arms are loaded with what appears to be an entire garden's worth of fall vegetables: squash, potatoes, carrots, and bundles of herbs.
I blink in shock, but before I can say anything, Gerralt steps up beside me. His expression pulls into a fearsome frown, more threatening than I've ever seen before.
"Good morning, Gerralt," the elderly orc says, her voice warm despite his glower.
"Good morning, Gran," Gerralt replies, his tone somewhere between resignation and respect.
My brain short-circuits at the word. I turn to look at him, then back at the woman, who's smiling broadly as she steps forward like she owns the place.
"Wait," I manage to say, staring between them. "Gran?"