Chapter Thirteen Douglas
T here’s no mistaking her blush. Her hungry gaze. She likes my company.
Isn’t she a brave one?
When Georgia returns, she’s got a slab of shortbread that must be a quarter of the pan. “I understand Orc appetites,” she whispers with a wink.
Oh, no she doesn’t. I’d like to sprinkle her with sugar and lick it off, feeling her soft skin under the crystals as my tongue marks every inch of her, finding the hidden pieces of her that make her whimper my name and beg me to fill her.
My kilt stirs as the beast inside tries to make itself known.
I’m going to have to start wearing trousers.
Ugh.
“So. It must be hard for you. Without your brother and his bride to run the kitchen!” I blurt, louder than I mean to, as I try to stave off the double entendre that was never meant to see the light of day.
To my great relief, Georgia just nods, a sudden weariness over her beautiful face. “They’ll be back in a few days. It’s no big deal. They deserve the time off. They’ve both waited so long to find someone.”
And so have I. So has she.
Easy, Dougie. Acting the fool already. Polite conversation is her job. She’s in the hospitality industry.
She should win some sort of award for it, honestly. Just being around her lifts the usual cloud that’s over me—but guilt stabs right back and says I have no right to feel this happy. I might be trying to live my life a bit differently, but I haven’t earned the right yet.
“I have Cindy and Diana to help out. And I can bake and cook—I’m just out of practice. I normally only make dinners for one—if that.” She gives me a sneaky, guilty grin.
I love it. Sharing secrets already—more than Nicola and I ever mastered.
“I get it. Why cook when you have all the delectable things on the menu here to take home?” I dare to wink back—and fail. My eyes twitch and falter. The poor woman probably thinks I’m choking on the shortbread. “Erm. That’s why I said I’ll likely be here night and day. I’m not much of a cook. Nicola used to say—”
My voice shuts off. Throat closes.
I recall Georgia’s mother is a witch. Her daughter must’ve inherited her magic. She’s cast a spell on me, pulled words from my soul that I hide, have always hidden.
“It’s okay to talk about her, Douglas. What’d she say?” Georgia encourages in a soft voice, her smile small but soothing.
“That I’d rather crunch numbers than crisps.”
“Heh. I could use a guy like that. Here! I mean, here. At the shop. Right now. Because we have our hands full with the new bakery expansion, putting in the second kitchen. I’m thinking I’m going to need to hire a part-time delivery driver, but that has to wait a little...” Georgia rubs her temples. “Sorry. You’re easy to talk to.”
This time, I do choke. I inhale a bite of melt-in-your-mouth proper shortbread, and instead of melting, the damn thing turns into a hot ball of buttery sweet death and lodges in my windpipe! I cough it back up onto my plate like a startled cat who’s never had a hairball.
“Me?” I choke. “God, I’m sorry!”
“No! No, it’s fine. Payback. Remember the first day I met you? Um. I was caught off guard in mid-bite, too.” Georgia laughs and acts as if men choking and spitting bits of biscuit at her is perfectly normal.
Back to what actually matters. She said I’m easy to talk to. Me.
The man who couldn’t get his wife of nearly two years to confide her troubles to him. In ten minutes’ time, Georgia has opened up to me—and it’s actually something I can help with.
The helpless feeling I’ve been saddled with shifts. “Please let me help you with something. Even if it’s ticking off items on the order forms while you look at the wholesaler’s catalog or double-checking your figures with a calculator. I just... It would mean a lot to me to do something useful. For such a beloved institution.” I gesture to the coffee shop at the last moment.
She crosses her arms and arches one brow. “Well, the library needs volunteers with the Summer Reading Bag Sale if you want to go with a beloved Pine Ridge institution. They’ve been around for over a hundred years. We’re newbies.”
My tusks ache and I grimace, flashing what could be taken as a smile or a wince of defeat. “Something for you. A family friend who has been so kind.”
“Well. When you put it like that, I could use some help with inventory and ordering...” It’s her turn to flash a grimace. “My brother could do it alone.”
“He’s the chef.”
“I know, but growing up, everyone always assumed he was the strongest, the most capable. You know? ‘Cause he got the green genes and I look like a little ol’ puny human?”
“Well, technically...”
“I’ve always had to prove myself, prove that I was as good in different ways. Together, we make this place a success. And he’s one of the few people I’ll ask for help.” Her hands flop on the table in tiredness and defeat.
It’s all I can do not to reach out and stroke them, pick them up, and pet them. They are little, delicate-looking. “It’s deceptive,” I murmur, more to myself, thinking about the power I know she must hold, with magic in her ancestry and Orc blood in her veins.
“Yeah, it is! I can kick just as much ass as any Half-Orc chick. Just because I’m not— Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Your wife. I’m sorry. Nothing against people who prefer someone who looks... Well. More like an Orc should look.” Her smile is sad and she shrugs. “You probably think it’s strange that Georgie could pass for a full Orc and I could pass for human. You wouldn’t be the first.”
“I’m not so prejudiced that I care about the color of a woman’s skin or the size of her tusks. None of it mattered to me before. It doesn’t matter now. D’ye not ken that deception is a skill so many Orcs lack? We’re more likely to break your face than create a surprise attack. You’re an asset to your clan, lass. Be an asset to any clan.” To my clan.
Georgia Fenclan-Wickstaff. Aye, and I’d take her name, too, honored to be counted among the Fenclans.
I stamp out the rosy fantasy. I don’t know where they keep coming from, blast them.
“You’re one smooth talker, Douglas.”
God, I love the way my name sounds in her mouth. “That’s never been true before.”
“Maybe the words were falling on the wrong ears?”
“Maybe.” I like that thought. Maybe I wasn’t a horrid husband—maybe we were simply mismatched. My voice belongs in different ears. How I wish I could press my lips to her ear right now and tell her I’d like to try to make a road with her, a lifelong path that’s all smooth and even.
My first day as an American resident, and I’m turning into a bloody sentimental fool. “Have I talked smoothly enough to wriggle my way into helping you? Not that you need help. I simply need something to do—and out of all the things a man could do when he starts his life over in a new country—spending time helping you sounds the nicest.”
“If you put it like that—then, yes. But I do want a look at your tongue.”
“Why? I’m not ill.”
“No, to see if it’s silverplated.”
I snort and she giggles. That heavy saddle of grief doesn’t slide off, but it shrinks. The load is suddenly so much lighter.
“Since you’re looking for a fun-filled way to spend your day, who am I to say no? Inventory is easier with help when you’re not the chef. I have to wait until after closing to do it, though. Do you want to come back for dinner? It’ll probably just be the last of the quiche and the creamy tomato basil soup.”
“Which is a thousand times better than the packet of soup I was going to try to make in the hotel coffee pot.”
“Oh, God. No. We can’t allow that.” Georgia clasps her hands to her cheeks in horror.
“Thank you for saving me, m’lady.” I give her a little bow.
“My pleasure.”
Oh, Georgia, love. If only you knew just how much you’re saving me...