Page 51 of Till Orc Do Us Part

“You know. Drokhaz. You always look like you’re thinking about him and then you forget to smile.”

I laugh, dry and thin. “Jamie?—”

“It’s okay,” he says, nodding sagely. “Green giants don’t know bedtime rules. Or how to stay put. But maybe he’ll learn.”

I crouch, hug him tight. He smells like crayons and storm air.

“You’re too smart,” I whisper into his curls.

He pats my shoulder like I’m the child. “Just don’t be sad. We still have poetry night.”

He trots off, humming.

I stare after him, throat tight.

Poetry night.

Yes.

That I can control.

I grab my planner from the kitchen drawer, flip it open like a lifeline. Page after page of lists, flyers, names, phone numbers. Things to call, things to build, things todo.

I light a candle, open a new document, and throw myself into the chaos.

I’ll find a way to make the night shine, storm or not.

Because distraction?

Distraction I can handle.

Desire? Love?

No.

But flyers? Scheduling? Sound checks and string lights?

Bring it on.

CHAPTER 16

DROKHAZ

Ishould be able to focus.

The office hums with all the cool precision of a well-oiled machine—glass walls gleaming, brushed metal surfaces untouched by fingerprints or time. The low buzz of filtered air mixes with the muted click of heels on tile, the occasional polite murmur of assistants moving through the outer ring of desks.

In here, nothing smells of salt. Or lavender. Or old wood.

Only sterilized ambition and very expensive coffee.

I sit at the head of a steel-and-glass conference table. Three monitors glow before me, bathing my skin in cold light. The spreadsheets are immaculate—columns of projected margins, risk analyses, site evaluations. Perfect.

And utterly useless.

Because I cannot stop thinking of the way Rowan Moore looked at me when I walked out.

Eyes storm-bright. Jaw set. Mouth bruised from the kiss we should not have shared.