Page 4 of The Cauldronball Run (Outlaw Country #2)

Farrah's steps faltered, her professional composure cracking.

She'd worked with supernatural patients before, but she'd never been alone with someone who looked like he could bench press her car without breaking a sweat.

Her witch senses were going haywire, recognizing him as something powerful and potentially dangerous.

He started to stand when he saw her, and her breath caught in her throat.

Unfolding from the booth like some kind of mythical giant, he had to be close to seven feet tall, all solid muscle under that straining uniform.

His hands were enormous, easily twice the size of hers, with calluses that spoke of hard physical work.

She wondered what they’d feel like on her bare skin.

Where the heck had that thought come from?

She knew she was staring, but there was something hypnotic about the careful way he moved, like he was constantly aware of his own size and potential for destruction. When he gestured to the seat across from him, the motion was surprisingly graceful for someone so large.

"You must be F. Moonbeam," he said, and his voice was a low rumble that vibrated through her chest and settle somewhere much lower. "I'm J.J."

Even his voice was sexy.

"Farrah," she managed, sliding into the booth on unsteady legs. "F is for Farrah."

Up close, he was even more overwhelming.

His eyes were dark brown, surprisingly gentle for someone who looked like he could tear through a steel door, but she kept getting distracted by those tusks.

They jutted just slightly from his lower lip, not enough to be scary, but enough to make her wonder what they'd feel like scraping across her breasts.

What the hell is wrong with me?

She was here about a job, not to fantasize about her potential employer's mouth. But something about him was triggering every neglected hormone in her body, making her hyperaware of how long it had been since anyone had looked at her with anything resembling interest.

Derek had spent their last year of marriage looking through her rather than at her, treating her like furniture that occasionally made inconvenient requests for attention or affection.

This orc looked at her like she was a delicious snack, and she was on board for it.

Five days alone with this guy? Yes, please.

"Thanks for meeting me on short notice," J.J. said, settling back into his seat. The booth creaked ominously under his weight. "Can I ask what made you respond to the ad?"

She forced herself to focus on his face instead of wondering if everything about him was proportionally large. "Fifteen thousand gold for less than a week's work made me respond to the ad. The question is why you're paying that much for medical transport."

He smiled, and she got an eyeful of those fascinating tusks. Her stomach did a little flip that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the way his lips curved.

What is it about dangerous men that makes my brain shut down?

"Straight to the point. I like that." He leaned forward, and she caught a whiff of a delicious scent that made her toes curl.

Was it his aftershave or just the way he smelled?

Either way, she wanted to bury her face in his neck.

"The patient has some unique medical needs that require discretion. Privacy is worth paying for."

"What kind of unique needs?" Farrah asked, trying to sound professional while her body was reacting to his proximity like she was a cat in heat.

"The kind that regular medical facilities aren't equipped to handle." His eyes never left hers, and she felt pinned by his attention in the most delicious way. "You mentioned you're comfortable with unconventional situations. How unconventional are we talking?"

Farrah thought about the healing magic she hid from everyone. But this massive, intimidating orc wouldn’t care about that. It might be exactly what he needed.

Her witch senses were already reading him—beneath his careful composure, she felt layers of desperation, crushing debt anxiety, and something deeper.

Loneliness. The kind that came from being different, from having to hide parts of yourself to fit in.

It was so familiar it made her feel an instant connection with him.

"More unconventional than you might think," she said carefully, testing the waters. “I’m a witch.”

He slumped in relief. "Good. You’re paranormal too.”

“Why is that good?” Most people went screaming the other way.

“Because this job might get a little weird."

"How weird?" She paused, then decided to risk honesty.

Through her empathic abilities, she could feel his genuine relief at her admission, no deception or fear.

"I have access to healing magic, some telepathy, protective wards—a bunch of spells that could be useful in medical situations.

But I've learned to keep that to myself. "

J.J. leaned forward, interested rather than alarmed. "Why?"

"Because mundane humans get twitchy around magic.

They prefer their medicine predictable and scientific.

I've lost jobs for helping patients heal too fast, for knowing things about their conditions I shouldn't be able to sense.

" The old hurt crept into her voice. "It's easier to pretend I'm just really good at my job than explain that I can literally feel when someone's in pain and do something about it. "

His emotional state shifted—she felt a spike of understanding, of shared experience. This was someone who knew what it was like to hide his true capabilities.

"That's..." He searched for words. "That's exactly why this job might be perfect for you. No questions asked about methods, as long as the patient gets the care they need."

The sincerity in his voice matched what her magical senses were picking up—hope, determination, and underneath it all, a bone-deep exhaustion from pretending to be less than he was.

J.J. was quiet for a moment, his huge hands wrapped around a coffee mug that looked like a child's toy cup in his grip. She was staring at those hands again, wondering what they'd feel like against her skin, how gentle someone that strong could be.

Focus, you horny disaster.

"Let's just say the patient's condition requires us to take some unconventional routes," he said finally. "Avoid certain facilities and people. Keep a low profile."

Every rational part of Farrah's brain was screaming that this was a terrible idea.

Whatever this job really involved, it definitely wasn't standard medical transport.

This beautiful, dangerous orc was clearly hiding something major, and getting involved with him would probably end up with her in jail or worse.

But fifteen thousand gold was fifteen thousand gold.

"I need to know more about the patient's condition," she said, proud that her voice came out steady.

"Fair enough." J.J. pulled out his phone, and even that looked tiny in his massive hands. He showed her what appeared to be a medical chart. "We'll need to make the trip from New York to Los Angeles to get the patient treated, and then we need to get them back again as soon as possible."

Farrah studied the chart, her professional training kicking in despite her body's distraction. Something about it felt off. It looked too textbook perfect, like someone had copied symptoms from a medical manual rather than documenting an actual patient.

"Why ground transport?" she asked. "Wouldn't air medical be faster for this kind of trauma?"

J.J. shifted in his seat, which creaked again ominously. "The patient's a banshee. Something about the altitude affects their vocal cords. It could cause permanent damage or worse. Ground transport only."

That actually made sense. Farrah had treated a few banshees over the years, and their supernatural anatomy was notoriously sensitive to pressure changes. But something in his tone suggested there was more to it than medical necessity.

"And the timeline?"

"The family's paying extra for speed. They want their loved one back to their lair as soon as possible once they get specialized treatment in L.A." J.J. leaned forward slightly. "How's your driving record?"

Farrah felt heat creep up her neck. "I've gotten a few tickets."

"Good." J.J. said, his face lighting up with genuine enthusiasm.

"Good?" She stared at him. "Most employers don't consider traffic violations a selling point."

"I mean, it's good that you're not afraid of speed. This job might require some urgent driving, you know, in case the banshee takes a turn for the worse and I need a break from driving."

"When would we leave?" she asked, though part of her was already committed to this insane plan.

"Day after tomorrow. Can you meet me at the Red Ball Garage in New York City on East 31st Street around midnight?"

"Midnight?" The time sent up another red flag.

"That's what the client wanted."

There was still something fundamentally off about this entire situation, but she couldn't put her finger on what. And honestly, she was too distracted the money and J.J. to even consider saying no. Either way, it was better than another shift with Pendejo.

"I'll be there," she said.

J.J. smiled again, and this time she was prepared for the way those tusks made her pulse race. Almost prepared. "Then welcome to the team, Farrah Moonbeam."

He extended his hand, and when she reached out to shake it, her fingers disappeared completely in his grip.

His palm engulfed her hand entirely, and she felt a little thrill at being so completely enveloped by his strength.

The contact sent tingles racing up her arm and settling in places that had been neglected for far too long.

Holy hell. If this is how he shakes hands, what would it feel like if he actually touched me?

"Looking forward to working with you," she managed, though what she was looking forward to had very little to do with work and everything to do with spending five days in close quarters with the most attractive man she'd ever met.

As she walked back to her car, Farrah tried to convince herself that this was about the money. About finally having a chance to use her abilities without hiding them. About escaping the soul-crushing routine of her current job.

But the truth was, she was thinking about J.J.

I shouldn't want him this badly. I hardly know him.

And yet, it was hard to walk away without looking back at him.