Charming the Orc’s Mate (Silvermist Mates #2)

1. Carissa

CHAPTER ONE

CARISSA

T he doors were supposed to be open.

A damp wind whipped down River Street, setting the hanging flower baskets swaying. The perpetual mist from the falls beaded on my windshield, blurring the view of the colorful Victorian and brick buildings that lined downtown. Tourist trap architecture at its finest.

I parked alongside Spines & Spirits and eyed the dash clock—eight forty-five A.M. sharp. The darkened windows of the bookstore stared back at me like a rebuke.

Quick clicks on my phone pulled up the employee schedule I’d updated remotely last week, though I already knew what it would say. Molly Verhoeven, opening shift, 8:30 AM. The number of available names had dwindled to just two after the fourth resignation email hit my inbox.

Speaking of resignations...

I shoved the snide little thought away. Between jobs. That’s what I was calling it. Sounded better than “rage-quit after that prick Johnson took credit for my risk mitigation strategy.” My color-coded five-year plan had crumbled in a fifteen-minute Zoom call, and didn’t even have the good grace to do so before I missed the funeral.

I snatched up my purse and braved the misty morning air before the fresh wave of grief could crash over me. An aneurysm, the doctors said. Nothing anyone could predict or prevent. Just a person-shaped hole where there were jokes and laughs and lavender tea.

The key stuck in the ancient lock, and I rattled it with increasing frustration as my heel slipped on the wet sidewalk.

The door finally gave with a protesting creak, and the musty smell of old books hit me like a punch as I stepped inside. For a moment, I was eleven again, hiding in the stacks and trying to forget Mom and Dad’s muffled arguments.

A different sort of chaos spread out before me. The building’s open two-story layout should have created an airy, welcoming space. Instead, books teetered in precarious towers on every surface—blocking the path to the wine bar that dominated one wall, cramming the reading nooks, even threatening to topple over the railing of the upper level.

Great-aunt Mags’s organizational system apparently involved throwing paper at random surfaces and hoping for the best. The register drawer hung partially open, jammed with receipts like some rodent had made a nest inside. Papers covered every inch of the checkout counter, spilling onto the nearby community events board where a calendar showed more crossouts than actual appointments before someone stopped updating it altogether.

“For fuck’s sake.” I slammed my purse down harder than necessary. The tower of books swayed ominously.

By 9:25, I’d managed to wrangle most of the receipts into some semblance of order. The drawer still wouldn’t fully close and neither of my remaining employees deigned to answer their phones, but those were problems for later. Right now, I needed caffeine. And maybe a flamethrower for this hellscape of disorganization.

The bell above the door chimed. I looked up, half-expecting to see Aunt Mags’s ghost come to haunt me for daring to reorganize her system of controlled chaos.

Instead, I found myself face-to-face with a blast from the past in sensible shoes and a cardigan that had seen better days.

“Little Carrie Morton!” Beverly Morris exclaimed, her eyes crinkling with delight.

“It’s Carissa,” I corrected automatically.

No one called me Carrie anymore—except Dad, in those awkward birthday phone calls that got shorter every year. I’d put my foot down about the nickname that last summer in Silvermist Falls, right after Mom won primary custody. New life, new name. The eleven-year-old who hid in these stacks while her parents fought wasn’t me anymore.

Beverly barreled on as if I hadn’t spoken. “My, how you’ve grown. I hardly recognized you without a book under your nose! Still as skinny as a rail, though. Mags always said we needed to fatten you up.”

I forced a tight smile. “What can I help you with, Mrs. Morris?”

“Oh, just Beverly, dear. We’re practically family after all those summers.” She waved a hand airily. “And since I’m here anyway, I was hoping to check on my book club order. The girls are so looking forward to our summer reading list.”

I blinked. “Book club?”

“Why yes, dear. Surely Mags mentioned it? We’ve been meeting here every other Friday for, oh, must be going on fifteen years now.” She settled into one of the armchairs like a queen holding court, radiating calm expectation. “In fact, we have quite a busy schedule planned for the next few months. I do hope you’ll be keeping the store open?”

The implication was clear. Close the store, and I’d be disappointing not just Beverly, but an entire cadre of Silvermist’s most formidable book lovers.

My temples throbbed. I should be in Seattle right now, interviewing for new positions, not dealing with my dead aunt’s book club drama. And where was Dad? Too busy with his new family to deal with his sister’s mess. Which left me, the responsible one. Always the responsible one.

My calendar stretched emptily ahead, mocking me with a future full of job searching and inevitably baking three dozen perfectly uniform snickerdoodles at two in the morning. At least in Seattle I had my own kitchen. Here I was stuck in Aunt Mags’s cottage with its temperamental 1950s oven and drawers full of mismatched measuring spoons.

“I suppose we can keep the existing schedule for now.” The words tasted like defeat. “Let me just... check on that order for you.”

“No rush, dear. Do you remember how you used to help Mags shelve books? Such a precise little thing, even then. Everything had to be perfectly aligned.”

I did remember. The summer everything fell apart, this store had been my sanctuary. Every spine in its place, every section in perfect alphabetical order. Control in miniature while my world spun apart. Now here I was again, trying to impose order on another mess I hadn’t created but somehow inherited.

I dove behind the counter, grateful for the excuse to escape Beverly’s knowing glances and wishing some of the stress-fixing had stuck after all these years. Where the hell would Mags have kept order forms?

“The romance section was your favorite,” Beverly mused while I searched. “Though you tried to hide it behind those big history books.”

My cheeks heated. “I was eleven.”

I unearthed a stack of papers that looked promising. Invoices were mixed with order forms, sticky notes, and what appeared to be... cocktail recipes?

“Mmhmm. And now here you are, all grown up and taking over the family business. Mags would be so pleased.”

I wasn’t so sure about that sentimentality. The eccentric aunt I remembered had been locally sourced this and organic that. None of the vendor names on past due notices sounded familiar, and all the addresses pointed to big cities with friendly tax schemes.

I shuffled through until I found a half-completed form with “Beverly’s Book Bitches” scrawled across the top. My eyes widened as I took in the detailed middle finger sketched at the bottom of the page.

Helpfully signed by the second resignee, three whole weeks ago.

“I’m not—” I shoved the order form into my blazer pocket before Beverly could spot the artwork. “I’m so sorry, but it seems there may have been some confusion with your order.”

“Not to worry, dear.” Beverly’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “I heard you were quite the successful businesswoman in Seattle. Surely managing a little bookstore isn’t beyond your capabilities? Why, Mags used to say the place practically ran itself.”

My jaw clenched. The place ran itself right into the ground was more like it.

“I’ll make some calls today and expedite a new order.”

“Wonderful! I’ll let everyone know the book club is still on for Friday.” She gathered her cardigan around her and rose with regal grace. “And Carrie dear? You might want to stock up on the Chardonnay—last time we discussed romance novels, things got rather... spirited.”

The bell chimed her exit before I could correct her. Again.

I slumped against the counter, my head throbbing. This was supposed to be a quick in-and-out. Settle the estate, maybe take a few weeks to get the place in order before selling. Not... whatever the hell this was turning into.

My gaze landed on the stack of invoices, and my blood pressure shot higher. With a deepening sense of dread, I gathered them and stalked up the stairs to the door of Mag’s office. One hard—and necessary—shove with my shoulder, and I stumbled inside.

Stale air tickled my nose as I hit the lights. A half-empty mug sat precariously close to the edge of the desk, its contents long past the best use date. Papers covered every surface like confetti after a tornado. Boxes stacked three deep against the walls bore cryptic labels in Mags’s spidery handwriting—”Maybe Important 2019” and “Definitely Important 20?—”

I dropped into the ancient desk chair, wincing at its protesting squeal. I’d thought the register drawer and counter were in a state. The real horrorshow lived in here.

“Past due... Final Notice... Payment Required Immediately...” Red ink everywhere. I shuffled through them faster, my heart rate climbing with each new total. The numbers danced before my eyes in an ever-growing parade of zeros.

The vendor list read like a who’s who of publishing houses and distributors. All with hefty minimum orders. All demanding payment. And the wine suppliers... Gods and devils. The alcohol license alone would cost a fortune to maintain.

My hand shook as I punched numbers into my phone’s calculator. The total made my vision swim.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The word became a mantra as I dug deeper. Tax forms from three years ago sat unfiled. A stack of bank statements showed a pattern of bounced checks that made my risk analyst brain scream. Credit card statements...

I couldn’t even look at those yet.

The leather chair creaked as I leaned back. The estate lawyer had made it sound so simple—just a quaint little bookstore to liquidate. A few weeks to find a buyer, tops. But this? This was financial quicksand.

My fingers drummed against the desk. Maybe I could negotiate with the creditors. Buy some time to get the place in order before listing it. The property alone was worth a decent chunk given Silvermist’s tourism boom. But who’d want to buy a business drowning in debt?

“For fuck’s sake, Mags.” I pressed my palms against my eyes until spots danced behind my lids. “What were you thinking?”

The door chime echoed from downstairs.

About fucking time. I grabbed another stack of papers to confront my wayward employee, knocking the ancient coffee mug in the process.

“Shit!” I lunged for the papers, yanking them away from the dark stain spreading like an oil slick. Most were ruined anyway—ancient receipts and sticky notes covered in coffee rings. A bright yellow flyer caught my eye as I shuffled through the rescued stack.

Local Author Reading Series - 7PM!

Join us for wine, discussion & book signing

Featuring award-winning mystery author...

The words burned into my retinas like a neon sign of doom. The date was today. Because of course it was. And naturally there was zero evidence of preparation anywhere in the store. No display table, no extra chairs set up, not even any copies of the author’s books set aside to sign.

I stormed downstairs, flyer clenched in my fist. The sight of Molly drifting toward the counter, iced coffee in hand and pink earbuds firmly in place, sent my blood pressure spiking higher.

“You’re late.” I planted myself in front of her. “Care to explain why the store was closed this morning?”

She blinked at me, pulling out one earbud. “Oh. Hi. You must be Carrie.”

“Carissa. And yes, I am. The store opens at eight-thirty.”

“Yeah, about that.” She shrugged, somehow making the gesture both apologetic and completely unconcerned. “Jana quit last week. Gave me her keys and everything.”

The words hit like ice water. “Jana... quit.”

“Mmhmm.” Molly settled onto the stool behind the counter. “I figured she emailed you or whatever. She said something about toxic work environment and micromanaging? But like, she gave two weeks’ notice and everything, so...”

“Two weeks—” My eye twitched. “And you didn’t think to mention this in any of our weekly check-ins?”

“Oh, I haven’t really been checking those. The scheduling app kept crashing.” She brightened. “But I’m still getting my internship hours logged, right? I need the credits to graduate.”

I pressed my fingers to my temples. “Molly. There’s an author event tonight at seven. Please tell me you at least knew about that?”

“Wasn’t on my schedule.” She twisted a strand of purple-streaked hair. “Jana usually handled evening events. Besides, I have a study group tonight.”

“You can’t just—” Deep breaths. No evening staff. No event setup. And apparently no Jana, who I was quickly realizing had been the only thing holding this chaos together. “This is your job. We have commitments to?—”

A laugh boomed through the store, deep and rich as thunder. “Molls! Tell me my special order finally came in!”

“Shhh!” I whirled toward the door, ready to eviscerate whoever dared disturb my rapidly unraveling sanity.

The words died in my throat as I looked up.

And up.

And up.

The doorway framed a mountain of an orc, broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides. Black hair shaved on one side and flipped into a perfect mess on the other, small tusks gleaming as they peeked through parted lips, and warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Like he was smiling now.

“Torain?”

The name slipped out before I could stop it. His smile widened, and suddenly I was eleven again, watching him carry boxes of books up to the second floor two at a time while I pretended to read and definitely didn’t stare at his arms.

Except he wasn’t gangly anymore. The awkward teenager who used to knock over display stands with his elbows had grown into his frame. Wood shavings dusted his flannel shirt, and his forearms...

I needed to stop staring at his tattooed forearms.

“Carrie?” His voice softened to what was probably his idea of a whisper—still loud enough to rattle windows. “Little Carrie Morton?”

“It’s Carissa,” I snapped.