Page 33 of Falling for the Orc All-Star

I hold my breath. What can I say? There’s been a lot of “overhearing” today.

King looks at me, looks at the octogenarian flirting with him, and smiles.

Oooh, don’t you dare be a jerk again, or I’ll...

“You can’t tempt me,” he says, nodding gravely at Mrs. Yerchenko. “I know all about you glamorous older women and your charms, but... I’ve got to be true to my heart. It’s part of my culture.” He turns and looks at me. “Once we know—we know. We’ll do anything to prove it, too. To be worthy of theone.”

I’m trying to breathe nice and steady, but it feels like everything is on fire and the air is too thick. His eyes, his words, the way he moves towards me—even on crutches—everything is sweet, and slow, and seductive.

“Go on quests. Fight battles. Bring gifts... It’s whatever she wants.”

Want him. God, I want him, and I told myself I didn’t, but...

“She wants someone who isn’t going to waste his sweet time with a lot of ring-around-the-rosy!” Mrs. Y chimes in.

“I’m not in a hurry!” I yelp. My body is telling me otherwise.

“Good. Because I’ll wait for you. I’ll move on your signal.”

Why is he so close? Why is he leaning over my desk?

How come his little tusks suddenly make him look so hot and dangerous, and how come I like it?

Maybe I have trichinosis from the wild boar?

No, I don’t think that makes you horny...

King’s lips descend on mine, soft and sudden, and then they’re gone before I can get into it. “Anything you want, my Ingrid.”

And then he grabs his coat, says “Aww!” at the dogs with a big soppy smile that just melts whatever reserve I have left, and hobbles back to Kevin, bowing his head to Mrs. Yerchnenko as he passes.

When the door shuts behind him, I sit down hard. My face must be fire engine red.

Mrs. Yerchenko claps. “That’s the one! Wrap him up and take him home, honey!”

“Oh, God!” I whisper, horrified.

“I’m okay with that!” King shouts back. “Listen to your elders, Ingrid!”

What am I getting into, and why do I want to dive deeper?

Chapter Twelve: King

The sky is a perfect October sky—not the clear blue, crisp air I’ve come to associate with the mountains of rural New York, but the wild, cloudy, gusty skies of the Highlands before a storm. I imagine Ingrid in a white blouse and tartan skirt (the Silverbow tartan, of course), standing on a hill, her arms out, her hair wild and blowing free as she beckons me to rush to her embrace.

“Are you going to look at the sky for the whole afternoon or come in with me?” Ingrid asks, standing next to the car, her dogs held on pink and orange leashes as they strain towards the door of Hilltop Home. “Mrs. Yerchenko—and her cane—are already inside.”

“Sorry. It’s just a perfect October sky. Gusty and dark...”

“Only if you like spooky thunderstorms,” she grouses, eyes turning heavenward as well. “Chip and Daisy hate them. I think it’ll be a shorter visit today. I’ll come back another time and let them stay for longer.”

I nod and steel myself for A) looking like an idiot with my leg in this immobilizer and B) the stench of the old people’s home. I’ve never been in one. Even if Orcs live among humans in many cases now, they tend to return to their clan lands to die surrounded by family, or they remain in their homes and their loved ones come to them, as is the sacred duty of clan.

I don’t like to think about getting old. Never have. Who does?

As I cross the threshold (trying not to stare at Ingrid’s backside in her pink and black scrubs), I think I understand why.

Ever since I got into hockey and found out I was good at it (okay, not good, phenomenal), I’ve pictured cheering crowds, big trophies, signed jerseys, fancy mansions, fast cars... Ice bunnies.