Chapter Five
I managed to not talk to Willa about the kiss for the entire weekend, but now it’s a new week, and I couldn’t contain myself any longer.
I balance my phone between my shoulder and ear as I lock my car and grab a bag with some new decorations for Daisy’s Scoop Shack.
“He kissed you?”
Willa’s screaming so loud, I’m positive people can hear her through the phone.
“He did. It was fake, of course, but also unlike anything I’ve ever felt before,” I say.
“Fake? I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Orcs have fated mates, Daisy. You could be Broven’s.”
I laugh. “No, that’s ridiculous. This was a practice kiss, Willa. If he was my—”
I stop talking, because I’m not sure what I’m seeing is even real.
Broven is standing in front of my pastel shop with a bucket and a cloth, running it slowly across my windows in long, even strokes.
“He’s cleaning my windows,” I say.
“Sorry, what?”
“My windows. He’s cleaning them.”
I stand on the pavement like I’m frozen in time. All I can do is stare at his strong green arms, wiping the grime off my windows.
“Daisy?” Willa asks.
“I’m here.” I swallow. “When we went to dinner at The Anchor, I might’ve told him I often don’t have the time to clean properly.”
“And now he’s just doing it for you?”
“Apparently.”
Willa laughs. “Daisy.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m just saying that—”
“No, stop.”
“Fine. I’ll stop. And I’ll hang up so you can go talk to him. Or kiss him,” she adds with a chuckle.
I put my phone away and stand there for another moment, watching him work. He’s being careful with everything, and my heart melts. This large green orc is being careful with my shop.
I take a deep breath and walk over to him.
The second he sees me, his face goes from serious to fully illuminated, like I flipped a light switch.
“Thank you for this. You didn’t have to, though,” I say.
He shrugs. “You mentioned you often lack the time. I had my half-hour break and wanted to spend it cleaning your windows.”
He looks at me like cleaning a woman’s windows during your morning break is the most natural thing ever.
“I really appreciate it. How about some coffee?” I ask.
He glances at his watch. “I have to get back to the construction site in a few minutes.”
“I’ll make it to go.”
I unlock the shop and he follows me inside, ducking through the door. I busy myself with the coffee machine while he looks around my shop properly. He’s too tall for the space, but he moves carefully, like he’s aware of every inch of himself.
“You did all of this yourself?” he asks.
“Every bit of it.” I hand him his coffee in a paper cup. “The painting, the decorations, the handwritten signs… everything.”
“It’s good work.”
“Thanks.”
He finishes his coffee in three long sips. The cup looks ridiculous in his hand, like a doll’s teacup.
“I’ll come by at lunch,” he says, putting the empty cup on the counter.
“Don’t you have anywhere else you’d rather be?” I ask.
He frowns like that’s a ridiculous question. “No.”
He ducks back out the door, leaving me dumbfounded. All I can do is think about how clean my windows are.
And about how he kissed me the other night.
I’ve been thinking about the kiss for days. I thought about it when I drove home that night. I thought about it the next morning when I was filling the display counter. I thought about it yesterday afternoon when a tourist asked me a perfectly simple question about flavors and I drew a blank.
The kiss was amazing, but it was a practice kiss. A practical exercise between two people who need to convince a room full of wedding guests that they’re in love.
It meant nothing.
It’s just that I’ve been kissed before, plenty of times, and none of those times left me walking on clouds after.
I glance at the clock. I need to start setting up for the day.
The morning rush keeps me busy enough that I can almost forget about Broven’s lips.
Almost.
But then a customer comes in with his girlfriend and she laughs at something he says and he looks at her the way Broven looked at me across the table last night, and I accidentally give the man three scoops when he asked for two.
I need to get a grip.
By the time the lunch rush dies down, my feet hurt and I realize I haven’t eaten anything since a piece of toast at seven this morning.
Just when I think Broven isn’t going to show up after all, he ducks inside with a paper bag in his hand.
I flip the sign to ‘Back in thirty’ and lead him to a table.
“I made lunch, this morning, before I left for work. I didn’t know what you liked, so I made two kinds.”
I open the bag and find two neat parcels wrapped in paper. One says cheese, the other says chicken.
I look up at him. He’s already settling onto his chair, completely at ease.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say.
He gives me the look that says he finds this particular sentence of mine very predictable. He’s right. Maybe I should stop saying it.
“But you already know that,” I say with a laugh.
I sit down across from him and unwrap the chicken sandwich. It’s really good. It has the proper amount of mustard, fresh bread, a leaf of lettuce and one slice of tomato. He put in way more effort than a sandwich technically requires.
“This is excellent,” I say.
“Good.”
We eat in silence for a while, which should feel strange given that I’ve known him less than a week, but doesn’t. He takes up most of the space on his side of the table and eats his sandwich in about four bites.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Yes.”
“Why are you being so nice to me? The windows, the coffee, now lunch.” I set my sandwich down. “You don’t owe me anything. We have an arrangement, but this isn’t part of it.”
“I know it’s not,” he says.
Which is not really an answer, but I have a feeling he’s not going to give me one.
I finish my sandwich and crumple the paper wrapper.
“I could do with something sweet. Want some dessert?” I ask.
He looks at me, and something shifts in his expression.
“Let me take care of dessert,” he says.