Page 5 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

T he next morning, I drag myself into Sea & Bean before the sun even thinks about showing up.

Liara’s already claimed our usual back table—legs kicked up on the chair across from her, a wide-mouthed latte steaming beside a pile of sketchbooks. Her pale-blue hair is piled high today, sea-glass earrings catching the cafe’s dim light. Half a fox tail peeks from beneath her threadbare cardigan.

She’s been here since six. I know this because she texted me at six.

Coffee. Now. You’re spiraling.

I slam my bag on the floor and slide into the chair opposite her.

“Triple shot,” I say to the approaching server. “Don’t be shy.”

Liara peers over her sketchbook. “Oh good. You look like hell.”

“Thanks.” I rub my eyes. “You’re a peach.”

The server—Mira, a young selkie with silver-gray eyes and a lip ring—smiles knowingly. “Rough night?”

“You have no idea.”

She flits away. I slouch back in my chair, bones aching in ways that have nothing to do with sleep.

Liara closes her sketchbook with a snap. “Alright. Spill.”

I scrub my hands through my hair, already regretting coming. “It’s… Drokhaz.”

Liara cackles. “Of course it is. It’s always the tall, dangerous ones with you.”

I shoot her a look. “It’s not like that.”

She leans in, chin in hand. “Oh? Tell that to the way you just blushed.”

“I did not?—”

“You did. Full flush. Very poetic.” She sips her latte, eyes dancing. “So what’d the big green bastard do this time?”

I groan. “He came into the store.”

That gets her full attention. “He what?”

“Last night. Just strolled in like he owned the place.” I rake my nails lightly across the tabletop. “Claimed he was researching local color.”

Liara snorts. “Local color? Please. The man’s about as subtle as a wrecking ball.”

“I know. And then Jamie—” I stop, pulse kicking.

Liara’s eyes narrow. “What about Jamie?”

I blow out a breath. “He was there. Talked to him. Waved at him.”

Liara’s jaw drops. “Oh my gods. You let your baby charm an orc tycoon?”

“I didn’t let anything!” I hiss. “Jamie… likes him.”

She stares at me. “Shit.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Mira arrives with my coffee. I thank her distractedly, wrapping both hands around the mug for warmth I can’t seem to find in my chest.

Liara watches me over the rim of her cup. “Alright,” she says finally. “I have questions.”

“Of course you do.”

“One—what does he smell like?”

I blink. “What?”

She grins. “You heard me.”

I roll my eyes. “Like expensive cologne and… I don’t know. Ozone. Iron.”

Liara hums. “Alpha male with a side of brooding. Classic.”

“I swear to the Veil, if you call him hot, I’m leaving.”

She smirks. “Oh honey. He’s Hot Shrek with a credit score. You know it, I know it, the entire damn town knows it.”

I bury my face in my hands. “You are not helping.”

She laughs, patting my arm. “Fine. Fine. What else?”

I lift my head, fighting the heat creeping up my neck. “He bought books.”

Liara cackles louder. “Oh, he is so trying to impress you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” She quirks a brow. “Men like him don’t buy poetry, Rowan.”

I think of the way he stood at the counter. Calm. Focused. The faint twitch of his mouth when Jamie waved.

“He’s dangerous,” I say softly.

Liara sobers. “I know.”

“He stood too close. Not… threatening. Just…” I shiver. “Present.”

She studies me a long moment. “And you liked it.”

I glare. “I didn’t.”

“You noticed it,” she corrects. “That’s what scares you.”

I sip my coffee, scowling. “I can’t afford to be scared.”

“No,” she says gently. “But you’re allowed to be human.”

That hits harder than I expect. I trace the rim of my mug, throat tight.

“It’s not just about me anymore,” I whisper. “It’s Jamie. The boardwalk. The town. If I let this—” I gesture vaguely, frustrated. “—distract me, we lose.”

Liara’s gaze softens. “You’re not weak for wanting. You’re strong for staying focused.”

I swallow. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

She leans in, voice low. “Listen to me. The boardwalk will stand because of people like you. Not in spite of you. Don’t let some six-foot-eight orc in a suit shake that.”

I blink. “You got his height memorized?”

She winks. “Of course. I’m not blind.”

I laugh, breathless. “Gods, you’re impossible.”

She grins. “And you love me for it.”

I sip my coffee again, tension easing just a fraction. The warmth helps. So does her steady presence.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

“Always.” Liara reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “Now. One more thing.”

“What?”

She smirks. “If you do end up sleeping with him, I expect details .”

I groan, shoving her hand away. “Liara!”

She laughs, bright and unrepentant. “What? I’m invested.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you, my dear Rowan, are in so much trouble. ”

She’s right.

And that scares me most of all.

The next day, the whispers start.

I hear them first at Vera’s bakery while picking up a loaf of honey oat—Mrs. Calhoun and Mr. Patel chatting over their morning coffees.

“Did you see him in the bookstore?” Mrs. Calhoun asks, voice pitched just loud enough to carry. “Bought poetry, they say.”

Mr. Patel snorts. “Or he’s spying.”

“Or flirting,” Vera chimes in, winking at me behind the counter. “That suit was tailored very well.”

I grip the loaf tighter, jaw clenched.

Later, at the post office, more of the same.

“Maybe he’s got a soft spot for single moms,” Nate, the part-time mail clerk, says with a grin.

I glare at him. “Maybe he’s scouting for weak spots.”

The grin fades. “Or that.”

By the time I make it back to the Gilded Page, my phone is buzzing with texts.

Liara: Told you. Town’s in heat.

Cass: The orc wears a suit. Keep your teeth sharp, girl.

Aunt Mae: Heard you made an impression. Call me.

I toss the phone onto the counter, heart pounding.

This is exactly what I didn’t want. Focus shifting. Attention skewing. Drokhaz Vellum becoming more than the enemy.

I pace the store, restless.

We need a win. Something tangible. Something public.

And then it hits me.

The poetry shelf. The one he touched. The one with our town’s stories gathering dust.

I grab my notepad and start scribbling.

Boardwalk Poetry Night

SAVE OUR STORIES

Bring a poem. Bring a memory. Bring your voice.

I slap the flyer onto the front window before I can second-guess it. The bold letters glare back at me, defiant.

Good.

Let them talk about that.

Let them remember what we’re fighting for.

And if it helps distract me from the memory of how close he stood—how his voice sounded in the hush of my shop—well…

That’s a bonus I’ll take to my grave.