Romancing the Orc (How I Met My Monster)

CHAPTER ONE

Lara

“You cannot be serious.” I waddle out from behind the privacy screen, pulling at the stretchy fabric crawling up my crotch. “I know I agreed to a makeover, but this catsuit’s way too tight!”

“ This is the one,” Gerald says, pressing a hand to his heart, a proud look transforming his thin, pale face. I didn’t know his features could do that. The past hour has been nothing but pinched lips and raised eyebrows, the stylist’s all-black clothing only adding to the feeling that he’s a mortician overseeing the death of all my normal wardrobe choices.

After a couple of seconds, he spins and claps his hands.

His assistants scurry for the door of the dressing room. One wheels out the rack of all the pretty clothes, and the other takes the shoes, leaving me in a pair of hot-pink Christian Louboutons with stiletto heels I can barely balance in.

“Wait!” I reach after them, my hand grasping futilely at empty air. Sure, I’ve tried on lots of outfits since he got here—and they were all fails—but I haven’t tried on everything . There has to be something else, something less… clingy.

“No. You either wear that, or you don’t get to say Gerald Lebalye styled you.” With that, he swans out the door, closing it with something that’s not quite a slam but is at least a slam’s close cousin.

Sherrie walks over to peer at my reflection. “You look amazing!”

“No, I don’t,” I say in reflex before spinning to face the dressing room’s three-sided full-length mirror. A stranger stares back at me, one brave enough to wear a hot-pink, sequined catsuit. One who looks nothing like a daydreaming romance author who gets dressed out of the dryer.

“It’s so… it’s so pink .” My protest sounds weak, even to my own ears, because I do look good. The push-up bra the stylist picked out is working miracles, and the thong is doing exactly what he promised—there’s not a single panty line to be seen under all that cling.

“Pink is perfect! Pink means romance!” My editor flutters around me like a tall, thin, fashion model, wearing dark skinny jeans and a simple white blouse that looks haute couture on her. She keeps her dark curls cropped short, the better to show off her amazing cheekbones and flawless sienna skin. “And you, my friend, are one of the premiere monster romance authors. You need to embrace it.”

“Like this catsuit is embracing my hoohaa?”

“Gerald’s right. This is the one.” Sherrie points at all the pink gripping my body. “And it’s not like you can wear your regular clothes.”

Can’t I? I look longingly at where my yoga pants and baggy T-shirt hang over the top of the privacy screen. They’re super comfy, perfect for curling up on the couch and typing away at my laptop. Sure, they’re not that flattering, but…

“You’re right,” I say, blowing a lock of hair away from my face. She usually is. We’ve known each other for years. She picked me out of the slush pile and gave me my first shot at publishing, and we came up through the ranks together, my recent success landing her a promotion to full editor. Along the way, she also became one of my best friends.

Flashing me a triumphant grin, she strides over to open the dressing room door. “We’re ready for you, Alex.”

“Hola, chica.” Alex bustles into the room, their tan face splitting into a big smile. Their dark-brown hair has been slicked down on the sides while the top stands straight up for several inches. The daring style would look horrible on me, but works perfectly on Alex. Their slogan T-shirt says, “Yes, I really am this magnificent,” and they’ve paired it with jeans with strategically eaten holes in the thighs.

Jeans sound really damned comfortable right now. I tug at my crotch. I want to be wearing jeans.

They lift their wheeled cosmetic case onto the table beside a lighted mirror and open it up to show racks of every type of makeup known to humanity. Waving a brush in the air like the artist they are, Alex says, “Let’s make you more beautiful.”

While they move around me, wielding brushes that work makeup magic, Sherrie says, “So, about today’s interview, I’ve got news.”

I eye her in the mirror. “Good news?”

“Yes. You’re not going to be alone on stage, after all. There’ll be someone else with you.”

“Oh, thank god.” A sigh of relief gushes out of me. The thought of speaking in front of a packed auditorium of readers makes my little introverted heart shiver with nerves. Having another author there will be a huge help. I make a little list of who it might be. “Who is it? Lana Stevens or maybe Jodie Everett?” I met them both at a romance author conference last year, and we immediately bonded because we were the only monsterfudgers there.

“Nope.” Sherrie’s bright smile wavers for a split second. Then she shoves her phone in front of my face.

I blink, then blink again. The image doesn’t change, the headline blazoned across the top reading, “Meet Lara Jade and Brokk!”

“Brokk!” His name explodes from my lips as I jab a finger at the screen. Beside my regular headshot, a shirtless man stands, muscles rippling. His long black hair blows in the wind, and his face holds the kind of masculine beauty that can stop traffic, especially since his skin is a rich green and he’s wearing tusks. “What do you mean I’m going on stage with Brokk?”

Alex makes a little tsk when I move right when they’re trying to apply blush.

I settle back into my chair and fight to hold my face still as I hiss, “You can’t be serious. He’s my cover model.”

“Your readers love him.”

“But he’s… he’s… ludicrous!” My hands fly up. “He stays in that getup twenty-four-seven. There are pictures online of him grocery shopping in costume. He tells people he really is an orc!”

“Which is exactly why monster romance girlies love him.” Sherrie offers me a wicked grin. “They all want to fuck him, or they want to fuck him as Grinthar. Same thing.”

I groan. Grinthar is the main male character of my most popular series. Sherrie’s right—readers go absolutely feral for the huge orc, and if I’m being honest, part of the success of this new series has to be because Brokk’s on all the covers.

Because it’s not just my readers who envision him as one of my orcs. It’s me. I’m the thirsty little monsterfudger dreaming of what it would be like to be railed by a massive orc, and Brokk…

Brokk’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen and the closest I’ll ever come to a real orc.

The publisher sent me to one of the photo shoots back when Brokk first got cast as my cover model. I hovered in the back of the studio, in the dark behind all the bright lights shining on him. He’d glowed, looking fit and huge and powerful, his wide shoulders stretching the seams of his clothes.

Then he took off his shirt, because Brokk always takes off his shirt. His chest was a work of art formed by the finest sculptor, the lines of his muscles so precise I almost wondered if he used a darker green makeup on them.

I immediately transformed from a competent author and wordsmith into a tongue-tied mess, too googly-eyed to use higher brain function. When they finally shut off all the special lights at the end of the photo shoot, I bolted before I could embarrass myself.

“We made the announcement on social media this morning,” Sherrie says, snapping me back to the here and now. “The readers will be really disappointed if he’s not there, but if you can’t do it…”

I meet Sherrie’s eyes in the mirror as she trails off. My friend isn’t saying it, but I can tell she thinks it would be a mistake to cancel.

I’m a big girl. I can be on the same stage with him without making a fool of myself. I so totally and absolutely can.

Right?

“He’ll keep his shirt on?” I ask. Because I sure as shit need him to keep his shirt on so I can form complete sentences.

She grins, knowing I just gave in. “I’ll talk to him personally.”

“Fine.” I start making a mental list of things I will not do while on stage with Brokk:

1) I will not start daydreaming that he’s actually an orc.

2) I will not ogle him, even if he takes off his shirt.

3) I will not make a fool of myself in front of thousands of people.

That last one’s a bit of a catchall, since I don’t have time to make a proper list. Lists. I don’t love them—I need them. They’re the only way I can keep on track when my mind wants to wander into absentminded writing mode.

Alex sets down their makeup brush, having transformed my face into a glamorous version of myself I almost don’t recognize. They reach for my hair. “Now, what do you want to do with this?”

“I thought we’d blow it out into gentle waves,” Sherrie says.

“No, put it in a ponytail.” There’s no way I can compete with Brokk’s shampoo-commercial hair, so I’m not even going to try. And if I only get to have one little piece of myself up there on stage, it can be my hair. Ponytails are my thing.

“I know just the one that will go perfectly with the catsuit.” Alex makes a chef’s kiss and flings their fingers wide. Then they work their magic, and by the time they’re done, they’re right. They turn my plain brown hair into a polished ponytail that looks fierce and flirty.

“Alex, you’ve worked magic,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Right on time, too.” Sherrie waggles her phone to show the time on the screen. “You’re on stage in five.”

Oh, god. I love writing monster romance, but the thought of going on stage in front of thousands of readers makes my stomach sink. I glance at the glamorous, made-over version of myself in the mirror. It’s not me doing this—it’s her, and she looks sparkly and pink and awesome.

I stand and yank the sequined monstrosity away from my crotch.

“Are you done doing that?” Sherrie asks, amusement filling her voice. “Get it out of your system now, because you cannot do that on stage.”

I shoot her a mock glare that only makes her grin harder and give the front of the catsuit one more good tug. Then I march for the door, my pink heels clicking on the polished concrete floor.

It’s a short walk down an industrial-looking hall to reach the backstage area. Sherrie strides along beside me, tapping away at her phone, much more confident in her heels than I am. “You remember your talking points, right?”

“Memorized my list.” I tap my temple. My phone’s back in the dressing room, where it won’t spoil the lines of the clingy catsuit.

“And if you get stuck on anything…”

“I’ll make a dick joke.” I grin over at her. “A monster dick joke.” I have a list of them, too.

“Perfect.” She smiles back and waves me to a stop right beside the curtain. “I’ll go tell Brokk to keep his shirt on.”

“Thank you.”

The second word is drowned out by the amplified voice of the interviewer. “Hello, Miami Monster Mash! Are you ladies ready to turn up the heat on this thing?”

A crowd of screams breaks out, and I gulp. Just how many people are out there? I’m not exactly the greatest in front of an audience.

“You know her for her Once You Do a Demon series, full of incubus heat. But you go absolutely feral for her new spicy orc romances in the How to Woo a Fae Orc series, starring the delicious Grinthar. Here she is, Lara Jade!”

My stomach does a flip, but I suck in a breath and march out onto the stage, squinting as a hundred camera flashes add to the brightness of the spotlights. I can’t see a damned thing.

The heel of one of my shoes catches on an obstruction, and I lurch forward with a gasp. I teeter for a second, pinwheeling my arms to try to regain my balance. I almost have it, but the unfamiliar heels throw me off.

Oh, no. No, no, no. Two seconds on stage, and I’ve already ruined one of the items on my list! That’s a new record, even for me.

I overcorrect and pitch backward, heart pounding—

Strong arms snatch me from the air and crush me to a solid wall of muscle.

I suck in a startled breath, breathing in the scent of male and leather and pine.

“Lara Jade.” A deep voice vibrates through my body where we’re pressed together in a tango dip. A voice that makes my heart skip.

Brokk’s voice.

I blink up at the most gorgeous face I’ve ever seen, the green and tusked face of an orc.