8. Laina
CHAPTER EIGHT
LAINA
My heart flipped over. “Is there a problem with one of the animals?”
“No. I meant—” He looked at the ground, Bertha, anywhere but at me. “Dinner. I usually eat around now. I could cook. If you wanted.”
Oh.
Oh.
“You cook?” I asked, because my brain had apparently abandoned all higher function.
“I do.”
It wasn’t a date. It couldn’t be a date. Except it was absolutely a date-shaped offer, and my pulse was doing date-shaped movements in response.
I could say no. Make an excuse. I had things to do at home—laundry, meal prep, literally anything that would give me space to think about what was happening between us without him standing there looking at me like my answer mattered more than it should.
“Okay,” I said.
His shoulders dropped, and his spine loosened.
“Good,” he said. “That’s…good.”
Sofia peeped from his shoulder, and I couldn’t tell if it was approval or commentary.
Probably both.
His cottage sat a short walk from the main building, tucked against the tree line where the last of the daylight barely reached. He unlocked the door and held it open, and I stepped inside to warmth and the smell of woodsmoke.
It was small. Cozy in a way that felt purposeful. A woodstove in the corner, split wood in a bin beside it. Shelves lined with books to the right, some with spines marked in Orcish script I couldn’t read. An orc-sized sofa and recliner, and a braided rug on the floor.
Uncluttered and tidy. Everything had a place.
“We built our homes after we finished the main building,” he said, moving past me to open a window. Fresh air spilled in, carrying the scent of evergreens. “There’s one bedroom, for now. If any of us finds a mate and…”
His hands twitched at his sides.
“We’ll add rooms,” he finished.
I stood in the center of his space and tried not to think about the word mate.
“You all live here and not in town?”
“We’re close. We grew up together. All of us are younger orclings and since orcs have big families, there isn’t always room for those who come last to start a family within the family compound. When we heard about the surface, we came here and loved it. Maine’s beautiful.”
“It truly is. I was born here and only left to go to college. I couldn’t wait to get back. My dad was a vet too. He died in a car crash. He and my mom divorced when I was little.”
My entire life was spilling out of me, but I was nervous. I trusted him. It wasn’t that. But this could actually be an almost-date.
“We’re not close,” I said. “She moved to Florida and met someone new. I have two younger half-siblings I don’t see often.
I’m a homebody and love staying right here.
She doesn’t like the area. Says it’s too rural.
I guess she’s a big city girl, though it’s hard to remember because she left so long ago.
I’ve visited a few times, and she’s come here, staying in a hotel and taking me shopping or to the mall in Bangor, but it’s always awkward. ”
“I understand.”
I sensed he did, and that was refreshing. He didn’t push for more details or try to explain everything away. He just listened.
He gave me a quick tour, opening the bedroom door to reveal a good-sized room with an enormous bed, neatly made, then on to the kitchen adjacent to the living room that was equally orc-sized.
“You can sit,” he said, waving to the island with stools tall enough I might need my stepladder to reach them. “I’ll handle this.”
I climbed up while he watched with a twitch of his lips.
Turning away, he started pulling out pans from underneath the counter and pulling out ingredients I didn’t recognize from the fridge and arranging them on the counter with the same care he used when handling creatures.
He worked quickly, chopping, measuring, stirring, and I savored the flex of muscle in his forearms and the way his hair fell forward when he leaned over the pan.
He glanced over his shoulder and caught me staring.
I looked away fast, heat crawling up my neck.
“What?” I asked, as if I hadn’t just been memorizing the shape of his ass and the way he moved.
“Nothing.” But the corner of his mouth twitched. “You can watch. I don’t mind.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
My face burned. “I was observing. Professionally.”
“Professionally.”
“Yes. I like to know what I’m eating.”
“That’s very practical.” He turned back to the stove, but I could hear the smile in his voice.
“I’m making something orcish, if that’s alright,” he said.
“That would be amazing. I haven’t tried many orc dishes, but I’ve loved what I have tried. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Trevaughn. My mother makes it on special occasions.” He glanced over his shoulder before returning to his work.
“Had you planned to make it anyway?” I wasn’t sure why it mattered, though a tiny part of me hoped he was preparing it because us having a meal together was a special occasion.
“I was going to eat leftovers.”
“I would’ve shared those with you. There was no need to go out of your way.”
His hand holding the spatula stilled, though he didn’t look back. “I wanted to share this with you.”
Did he… No, I couldn’t start thinking that. If I did, I’d get my hopes up, and they’d been dashed more times than I’d like.
“What’s in it?” I asked, directing the conversation away before my entire body was scarlet.
“Vegetables. Meat. And a root vegetable that’s like a potato. Everything came from the orc kingdom. We have regular deliveries. We enjoy your food too but sometimes, it’s nice to eat what tastes like home.”
He chopped the meat and seared it in a pan, its savory scent swirling through the air. Once it had partly cooked, he added sliced vegetables, stirring everything together while it sizzled. Fresh herbs followed, and my belly growled at the yummy smell.
He served the meal in wide bowls that were too big for me and sat beside me at the island. Closer than necessary, maybe, but neither of us adjusted.
“Enjoy,” he said, and watched me take the first bite with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
The flavor hit: rich, savory, and complex. Meat and vegetables and something earthy I couldn’t name. It tasted like comfort and home and things I didn’t have words for.
“It’s wonderful,” I said around a bite. “I love all the flavors.”
He smiled, all tusks. I wanted to make him smile like that again and again, knowing I’d caused it.
We ate in silence for a while, and I was aware of every small sound he made. His fork tapping the bowl, his breathing, and the shift of fabric when he moved.
“I think the biggest adjustment is to my routine,” I said, needing words to fill the space. “At the clinic, I knew what to expect. I worked with my dad each summer from the time I was in high school and right through college. It was as familiar as home.”
“But you left it.”
“I did.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
I ate another bite, chewing slowly, deciding how much truth to give him.
“Leaving the clinic felt like losing my dad all over again. He and his partner built it. I stepped into his place after he died because I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
I loved it there.” I tilted my head, glancing his way, and found him watching me like my words mattered.
“I felt him in each exam room and in the hallway. But in the past year, I’ve come to realize that it was his space, not mine.
I wasn’t growing any longer, I was staying where it felt comfortable. ”
“You carried him with you to the rescue league,” Brovish said quietly. “That’s not loss. That’s honoring.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly it.”
We finished eating and cleaned up together, standing side by side at the sink. He washed. I dried. The rhythm felt practiced even though we’d never done this before.
I dried the last bowl and set it on the counter. His mug sat in the dish drainer, clean and waiting.
No, my mug. The chipped one.
“You’ve been washing this,” I said. “Every day. Bringing it back to the rescue and leaving it for my morning tea.”
He didn’t look at me. “Yes. Sometimes I wash it there and put it on your desk.”
“Why do you wash it for me?”
He reached over me to put the plates away, and I caught his scent again, drinking it in.
But he didn’t answer.
“My dad gave me that mug,” I finally said. “He was so mad at himself when he knocked it off my desk and chipped it. He said he’d replace it but then he…” My gaze fell to the floor. “I should just throw it out.”
“It’s a connection to your father. The chip makes it even more special.”
“You’re right, it does.” My throat felt much too tight. I focused on drying the bowl in my hands, the towel rough against my palms.
“Did you know that the mossnibbles once stole a child’s backpack? The child was here for a tour with his class. They added it to their nest, hiding it underneath the straw.”
“That must’ve sent you and the teachers on a wild goose chase.”
He frowned. “Wild goose…”
I explained the meaning, and he chuckled.
My laughter joined in.
When I looked up, he’d stopped laughing and was staring down at me. At my mouth in particular.
My skin tingled with heat, and I grabbed the last fork, drying it, placing it in the drawer with the others.
Sofia shot sparks, thankfully not at my hair, and we both started laughing again.
“This girl needs to start carrying a fire extinguisher,” I said. “Or I do.”
“Do they make them in her size?”
“Probably not.”
“I wash your mug because it makes me happy to please you, to take care of you.”
“I should do it myself,” I said.
“You don’t need to.” He slid a strand of hair behind my ear. “Let me do this for you.”
“Thank you.”
His crooked smile rose. “You’re welcome.”
“It’s been lovely, but I should probably go,” I said. “We both have to be at work early tomorrow.”
“I’m not making you feel uncomfortable, am I?”
“No.” I sucked in a breath and released it and met his gaze. “I like having you take care of me. It makes me feel special.”
“You are special, Laina. Very special.”
“So are you.”
At the end of each day since I’d started working at the rescue league, when I started to leave, Sofia would fly off my shoulder to Brovish’s.
Today, as I headed toward the door, she didn’t move from my shoulder.
“Sofia, you need to stay with Brovish,” I said.
She peeped.
Brovish held out his hand. “Sofia. Come, to me, little one.”
She hid her face in my neck.
“She can go with you,” he said softly. “If you’re alright with that.”
“Are you sure?”
“She’s made her choice.”
But what did that choice cost Brovish?
Sofia rode home in my passenger seat, curled into a ball of orange warmth against the upholstery.
Just the once, I told myself.
I spent the drive trying not to think about the way he’d watched me read his notebook, the pages turning slow under my fingers while he stood silent, letting me see something he didn’t show anyone else.
How he’d looked braced over me.
How his voice had cracked when he told me I was special.
I’d opened a drawer he’d kept locked, and he’d handed me the key.