Page 28 of Falling for the Orc All-Star

He’s quiet.

“King? Are you okay?”

Still quiet. He comes hopping into the kitchen and gently puts items into the sink before turning and hopping back out.

None of my business. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe it’s all an act.

“I love having my own cheering section, but I don’t even know those girls. This is a small town. I flirt, I blow kisses, I give a big toothy grin,” he illustrates with one of those grins and dang it if my knees don’t go AWOL, “but that’s pretty much it. Out of town, on the road...” he sighs.

“This is your business. You don’t have to tell me anything,” I reassure, and tell myself I have no reason to be disappointed. I suspected that much from the second I met him, didn’t I?

“I’ve done a lot of stuff that I don’t even remember—but it’s never been all the way. Not really. Women aren’t built for Orcs unless there’s some kind of assistance, like from the knotting tea.”

I’m going to have to look that up later.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I guess I didn’t want you to think I thought things would be casual between me and y— whoever I’m with.”

“You said you had someone you were interested in.” Yep. I’m the kind of person who sticks a fork in the toaster.

“Well, I do. You. Was I not clear about that?” King asks, returning with more dishes. “You really don’t have to do the dishes,” he repeats.

“I don’t mind.” I don’t. Scraping and rinsing dishes and putting them in King’s dishwasher is very mindful. Soothing. My mind is quietly sinking into warm water and bubbles, and I don’t have to think too hard about the conversation if I’m thinking about getting all the little bits of apple crumble off. I like not thinking about the fact that I’m having a semi-open and honest discussion with an Orc, AKA the hottest guy I’ve ever met, AKA the jerky jock that I shouldn’t be thinking about in any sort of romantic way.

“You don’t mind that I’m interested in you?” he whispers, coming up to stand beside me.

I’m not a short person. I’m not a small person. Next to King, I feel positively petite, and I’m enjoying it way too much.

“I don’t think it’ll work,” I whisper back, swallowing hard. I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid I’m ruining something. I know that doesn’t make sense. Dishes make sense. They’re dirty. Get them clean. Nice and orderly.

Like my life was—is—like it needs to stay. King will just make things messy.

“Why? Because I was so rude the other day? I’m sorry. I really am. I promise... I’m not going to be like that anymore. I can’t even say I wasn’t like that before, but it was a rough day. My career, my leg—”

“No, it’s not that.” I turn too quickly and bump into him.

He’s a wall. A wall who looks at me like I’m the last lifeboat on a sinking ship. So desperate. So hungry.

He has no right to look at me like that. To make me believe he wants me.

I have to look down, because if I keep looking up, I’ll want him to kiss me, and that’s wrong.

“What is it?”

“You’re too young for me.”

“I’m not some teenager!”

“I have my life all set. You’re figuring yours out, and things might change a lot for you in the next couple of weeks or months. It could get messy. Not the time to start a new relationship. Smart people will realize that,” I say firmly.

Please, please, please be smart, Ingrid...

“I’m just a dumb hockey player,” he whispers, and his head droops to rest on mine.

He smells so good, wine and cinnamon. His skin is so smooth as I lace my fingers around his wrists to push him away—and stop, holding him in place instead.

“I do need to figure out my life, but I have a couple of things I know. Wanna hear them?” he asks.

His voice has dropped an octave, from a sweet baritone to a bass rumble that feels like the ocean’s roar against my skin. My eyes close.