Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Forge
The speed dating so far has been a catastrophe. An absolute, unmitigated disaster. Two rounds in, I’d said maybe three sentences total.
Jennifer apologized that she was “only into naga” before scrolling on her phone. Tara used her five minutes to pitch me her essential oils business, and I couldn’t even be mad—I’ve faced actual fire and still couldn’t escape an MLM pitch.
During round three, Sandra answered in monosyllables while staring at my tusks. By the fourth, I was seriously considering Thrall’s suggestion that I fake sick and bail.
The bell rings again, and I push to my feet, moving to the next table. A petite woman with shoulder-length brown hair is waiting for me to meet her. Her name tag says, “Jordan.” She meets my eyes with genuine curiosity, no fear or odd fascination—just interest in the person sitting across from her.
For five precious minutes, her laugh is warm and unguarded, and her smile reaches her eyes when I manage to be funny. I’d forgotten how good it feels to be seen as more than my tusks and green skin.
When the ending bell rings, she says, “Good luck, Forge”—the first time anyone has used my name all evening. The little personal touch feels better than it has a right to.
Now the bell’s gone silent and the rounds are over. I spot her near the refreshment table with a blonde woman who looks about as deflated as I feel. I consider approaching them, but before I can work up the courage, Chief Brokka’s voice booms across the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen! We’re going to shake things up with our Appetizer Challenge!”
The collective groan from both sides of the room is audible.
“Each team will have thirty minutes to create a bacon-wrapped date appetizer,” Brokka continues, clearly enjoying himself.
“Dates for speed dating,” Kam pipes up from somewhere behind me. “Brilliant.”
Brokka continues as though Kam hasn’t said a word. “You’ll be randomly paired with someone from the opposite group, and our panel of judges will award prizes for creativity, teamwork, and most importantly… whether anyone gets food poisoning.”
Kam appears at my elbow, grinning like the cat who got the cream. “This should be interesting.”
“Please tell me you didn’t rig the pairings,” I mutter.
“Would I do something like that?” His expression is far too innocent.
“Yes, absolutely.”
Kam drops his voice. “I didn’t rig it; I nudged it. She’s quick, kind to nervous guys, and she actually laughed at something you said. You needed a win.”
I want to argue, but what’s the point? If this goes badly, I’ll never hear the end of it from the crew. If it goes well… hell, that might be worse. I have no idea how to handle success when it comes to women.
“We’ve set up cooking stations throughout the firehouse kitchen area,” Brokka calls out. “Teams are posted on the board behind me. Good luck, and try not to burn down my firehouse!”
I shoulder through to the board, already guessing what I’ll find. When my name shows up, it’s exactly where Kam nudged it.
Forge Ironwood – Jordan O’Brien.
Of all the humans in this room, I get paired with the one who actually talked to me like a person. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a recipe for humiliation.
I turn to scan the room and spot Jordan near the cooking stations, looking as thrilled about this development as I feel. Our eyes meet across the space, and I see my own resignation reflected in her amber gaze.
She approaches our assigned station, and I notice she’s transformed from confident speed-dater to someone who looks distinctly uncomfortable with the array of cooking supplies laid out before us.
“So,” she says, surveying the bacon, dates, cream cheese, and various other ingredients with the expression of someone facing a firing squad. “I should probably confess something.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m possibly the worst cook in Los Angeles. I once set off my smoke alarm preheating the oven.”
Despite my nerves, a grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. “That’s… actually impressive.”
“Right? It takes real talent to mess up a preheating cycle.” She picks up a package of bacon like it might bite her. “Please tell me you have some kitchen skills, because otherwise we’re about to create something that might violate several health codes.”
I can’t stop the ghost of a grin slipping through. “I can cook,” I say quietly. “Basic stuff, anyway.”
“Thank God.” She sets down the bacon and looks at me seriously. “Okay, here’s the deal. You handle anything that involves actual culinary knowledge, and I’ll… chop things? Or stand back and try not to cause any fires?”
Her easy trust in me throws me off balance, but it feels damn good. There’s no ego, no need to prove herself—just practical teamwork. It’s refreshing after a lifetime of people either dismissing what I can do or being surprised that an orc knows his way around a kitchen.
“You could unwrap the dates while I prep the bacon?” I suggest.
“I can handle unwrapping. Probably.”
As we work, I relax. She isn’t trying to make small talk about the weather or to ask awkward questions about orc culture. She’s just focused on the task at hand, approaching it with the same directness she showed during our speed dating round.
“So what do you do?” I ask as I lay strips of bacon in the pan, adjusting the heat to prevent the disaster I can see happening at the cooking station next to us. “Besides unwrap dates with suspicious competence.”
“Divorce lawyer.” She pauses in her unwrapping. “Which probably explains my sunny disposition about romance.”
“That must be… challenging work.”
“It pays well and provides endless evidence that love is a temporary delusion that leads to expensive legal fees.” She glances at me. “What about you? Besides running into burning buildings?”
“Woodworking, mostly. I make furniture in my spare time.”
Her hands stop moving. “Really? That’s incredible. I can barely assemble IKEA furniture without having a nervous breakdown.”
There’s genuine interest in her voice, not the polite-but-distant tone most humans use when they’re trying to make conversation with an Other. It hits somewhere low and solid, the kind of warmth you don’t expect from small talk.
“It’s just a hobby,” I say, but I can’t quite keep the pride out of my voice.
“Don’t downplay it. Creating something beautiful with your hands is a gift.”
No one calls it beautiful. They call it useful.
The bacon sizzles more aggressively, sending small droplets of grease flying. Jordan jumps back with a small yelp.
“Maybe the bacon doesn’t like being cooked. Did you see that? It’s spitting at us.”
“It’s fine, just—” I reach for the pan handle at the same moment she steps forward to help, and suddenly we’re very close together.
Close enough that I can smell her perfume, something light and citrusy that makes my enhanced senses go haywire.
The scent lands on my tongue; instinct says breathe her in and hold.
I angle my body between her and the stove.
The grease spits more aggressively, a sharp pop cutting through our laughter. She startles and reaches out, her hand catching my arm. The contact jolts through me—then instinct takes over. I shift, putting myself between her and the stove just as a spark flares from the pan.
“Small flare,” I say, steady but rough. “Step back.”
I move without thinking—kill the burner, slide a sheet pan over the flames, and hold it there until the fire chokes out. The hiss fades, replaced by the sharp beep of the smoke detector.
I tap the hush button with a knuckle, bump the hood fan to low now that it’s safe, and keep the pan covered another beat for good measure.
When I finally glance at her, she’s still standing close, eyes wide, her hand hovering where it had touched my arm.
“Everything under control over there?” Brokka calls from a few stations over, extinguisher at his side, amusement in his voice.
“Handled.” After lifting the cover to see a tame sizzle, I ease the heat back on low.
“I’m sure you did.” His grin suggests he noticed exactly how “handled” the situation was. “Carry on.”
Jordan and I avoid each other’s eyes, both of us suddenly very interested in our respective tasks. But I can still smell her perfume, still feel the phantom touch of her hand on my arm.
This cooking challenge has just gotten a lot more complicated.