Page 30 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc (Monsters of Saltford Bay #1)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Cassidy

I burrow deeper into the twisted sheets, inhaling Gerralt's scent lingering on the pillow. Marigold's warm body vibrates against my side, her rhythmic purring the only sound breaking the suffocating silence. Even with the cat's comfort, emptiness claws at my chest, hollowing me out from the inside.

My phone buzzes again. It's the fifth time she called this morning.

Silvia's name flashes on the screen, probably calling to check if I've crawled out of my pit of despair yet.

I roll over, burying my face in Gerralt's pillow.

The curtains remain drawn despite the midmorning light trying to penetrate the gloom, casting the room in muted shadows that match my mood.

Every time I close my eyes, I see water cascading through the lodge ceilings, soaking into those beautiful floors I spent weeks refinishing. The new drywall, dissolving like wet cardboard. My beautiful new kitchen, ruined.

All that work. All that hope. Gone.

The mental calculations run through my head for the hundredth time. Insurance won't pay for months, if at all. My savings are nearly depleted. Even with the money from the house finally in my bank account, the repairs would take weeks, probably months.

Tourist season will come and go while the lodge sits empty and broken.

Marigold butts her head against my chin, meowing softly. I stroke her automatically, fingers running through her soft fur while my mind remains trapped in an endless loop of failure and regret.

The lodge was supposed to be my fresh start. My declaration of independence. My proof that I could redefine who I am and live life on my own terms.

Now it's just another bad decision in a lifetime of them.

The distant rumble of Gerralt's truck barely registers. The front door opens and closes with a solid thud. Heavy footsteps approach, each one deliberate against the wooden floorboards. The bedroom door swings open, letting in a slice of light that makes me wince.

I don't look up, don't acknowledge his presence. Maybe if I lie still enough, he'll leave me alone with my misery.

"Enough." Gerralt's deep voice fills the room, brooking no argument. "Get up. Get dressed. "

I pull the blanket over my head in response.

"I'm too tired," I mumble, my voice hoarse from disuse and crying. "Just let me sleep, please."

The bed dips as Gerralt sits on its edge. His large hands grip the blanket and pull it back despite my weak attempts to hold on. I frown as I take in his appearance.

Is that paint on his face? I reach for his cheek and flick a dried splatter of paint from his skin, then inspect it closer. Yes, it's Witch’s Hearth, alright.

"Wallowing won't fix anything," he says, bringing my attention back to him.

"You're coming with me. There's something you need to see."

His amber eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes me squirm. Shame washes over me at the depth of my surrender, but I'm not ready to face reality just yet.

"I can't," I whisper, turning away. "Not yet."

Without warning, Gerralt bends down and scoops me up, tossing me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.

"What are you doing?" I yelp, smacking ineffectually at his broad back.

He carries me to the bathroom, sets me down with surprising gentleness, and presses a stack of clean clothes into my arms.

"Fifteen minutes, then we're leaving," he says, his voice firm but not unkind. He lifts a brow and his gaze runs down my bare legs under the t-shirt I've been wearing as pajamas. "Whether you're dressed or not."

The bathroom door closes behind him before I can argue.

I stand frozen, caught between outrage and shock.

Part of me wants to sink to the floor and stay there or crawl back to bed.

But something in Gerralt's expression stops me.

And the fact that I don't doubt for a second that he's going to drag me out of the house with only a t-shirt over my naked body if I defy him.

With slow, reluctant movements, I turn on the shower.

Exactly twenty minutes later, just for good measure, I step out of the house dressed in clean jeans and one of Gerralt's flannel shirts that hangs like a dress on my frame. Then I find myself being gently but firmly guided to his truck.

"Where are we going?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

"Home," he says simply, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

The drive to the Saltwater Lodge passes in silence. I stare out the window, mentally preparing myself for what awaits. The devastation, the ruin of all my dreams. My stomach churns with dread, and I consider begging Gerralt to turn around.

As we round the final bend in the road, my breath catches in my throat. The front lawn of the lodge is filled with vehicles—pickup trucks, compact cars, even Sheriff Wolfsbane's cruiser parked at an angle near the porch.

But it's not the vehicles that steal my breath, it's the people. Dozens of them, moving in and out of the lodge carrying tools, materials, equipment. The sound of hammering, sawing, and conversation fills the air.

Gerralt parks the truck and turns to face me, watching my reaction carefully. "You ready?"

I exit the truck in a daze, my legs moving automatically toward the lodge.

Familiar faces swim into focus everywhere I look.

Mathilda from The Wandering Gnome stands on a stepladder, carefully painting a section of exterior trim.

Sheriff Wolfsbane and two of his deputies carry sheets of drywall through the front door.

Mr. Pierce, the elderly goblin from the parks department, kneels on the porch, carefully measuring and cutting new floorboards.

Just as I reach the front steps, Mrs. Primrose emerges through the door. The elegant pixie woman looks nothing like her usual self. She's dressed in paint-splattered overalls with her silver hair tucked under a bandana. Blue paint smudges her cheek and forehead.

"Cassidy, dear!" she exclaims, wings fluttering slightly as she spots me. "We've been wondering when you'd finally show up. Bernice has been dying to ask you about the paint for the kitchen. Witch's Heart, is it?"

I turn to Gerralt, utterly bewildered. "What… what is happening?"

Gerralt's expression softens as he looks at the bustling activity around us.

"After that night, I made some calls," he explains, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Word spread. I didn't even have to ask twice. People just started showing up with tools and supplies. They've been working in shifts for seven days straight on the repairs."

"But why?" I ask, stunned by the scale of the effort. "Why would they do this for me?"

"Because that's what we do in Saltford Bay," a gruff voice answers. Sheriff Wolfsbane approaches, wiping sweat from his fur with a bandana. His wolfish, piercing blue eyes catch the light. "We take care of our own."

Our own. The words echo in my head, warming something that's been cold for days .

I turn to Gerralt, my brow furrowed with sudden confusion. "But wait… how did you pay for all of this? I won't see the insurance money for months, and even with my savings…"

Gerralt shifts his weight, looking almost sheepish. "I made some calls."

"Some calls? Gerralt, there must be thousands of dollars’ worth of materials here, not to mention all this labor."

Before he can answer, my attention catches on a figure emerging from inside the lodge. She's wearing faded blue jeans and a simple white t-shirt, both splattered with primer. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there's a smudge of paint across one cheek.

My mother.

Patricia Perkins, who I've never seen without perfectly styled hair and designer clothes, is dressed like a common laborer, carrying a paint roller in one hand.

I stand frozen, unable to process the sight before me.

"I called her," Gerralt says quietly, nodding toward my mother. "After the sabotage. Thought she should know what happened."

Patricia spots me and hesitates, uncertainty flashing across her features, an expression I've never seen on her confident face. Then she sets down her roller and walks toward me with purposeful strides.

"Cassidy," she says, her voice softer than I've ever heard it. She reaches for my hands, and I'm so shocked I let her take them. Her manicure is chipped, her fingers rough with dried paint.

"Mom? I don't understand. What are you—"

"I'm sorry," she interrupts, squeezing my hands. "I'm so sorry for everything I said, for how I treated you, for doubting you." Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "When Gerralt called and told me what happened, how someone tried to destroy what you've built…"

She shakes her head. "I realized I've been no better than them."

My throat tightens. "Mom."

"No, please let me finish." Her voice wavers. "I was wrong, Cassidy. I was afraid for you, yes, but I was also afraid of you succeeding on your own, without needing me or my way of doing things. I was afraid you'd prove me wrong." She smiles. "And I'm glad you did."

She glances around at the lodge, at the people working.

"What you've created here isn't just a business. It's a home. A community. And I nearly missed being part of it because of my pride."

Tears spill down my cheeks. "I never wanted to shut you out. I just needed to do this my way."

"I know that now." She reaches up to brush a tear from my face. "Your orc friend made that abundantly clear." A small, genuine smile curves her lips. "He's quite persuasive when it comes to defending you."

I glance at Gerralt, who stands a respectful distance away, his expression carefully neutral though his ears have turned a slightly darker shade of green.

"You hate getting your hands dirty," I whisper, still stunned.

"Maybe it was time I learned how." She squeezes my hands again. "I want to be part of your life, Cassidy. The life you choose, not the one I tried to choose for you. If you'll let me."