6. Gracie
Chapter 6
Gracie
T ark guided me into a small kitchen behind the bar. He ducked as he stepped under the doorway, a strangely endearing habit for someone his size, even though the frame was more than tall enough for him to pass through without issue.
Inside the area where I assumed they’d make french fries and maybe pizza, snack food for the saloon guests, he tugged out an orc-sized chair at a small-ish table. “Please sit. I’ll cook for you tonight.” The tips of his pointy ears went florid. “Well, I’ll be cooking all your meals until the restaurant opens, assuming you’re still here by then.”
“That’s in two weeks, right?” He’d told me the details when he outlined what the business needed for social media marketing, but there was no harm in confirming them now.
“Yes. We need lots of help.” He watched me so intently that I was now the one blushing.
“This place is stunning. Tourists are going to love it. Doesn’t the script pretty much write itself?”
His face darkened to match his ears. “It does not.” With that, he spun and strode around the island. He stopped beside a perch and gently placed Sharga there, shaking his finger at the bird. “Remain here. You cannot help.”
Sharga seemed to huff.
Turning, Tark went to the stove. He tugged pans out of a cupboard beside it and placed them on the cooking surface with delicate care. At the fridge, his brow furrowed as he studied the food options with an intensity that made me bite back a smile.
“Would you like a meal prepared for humans?” he asked in his burly, deep voice. “Or an orc meal?”
I leaned back in my chair, the wooden slats creaking beneath me. “Which one are you more comfortable making?”
He hesitated, his gaze flicking between the pans on the stove and me. “I’ve eaten human meals at my brothers’ homes. Now that they're mated. Jessi and Rosey are…” He blinked a moment. “They both said they wish to fatten me up, though I'm not sure why.”
There was that word again, mate , a thread weaving through his world, tangling into mine at the oddest moments. “What does mated mean to you?” I tilted my head, holding his gaze.
His ears twitched, and his cheeks turned a dusty green. He cleared his throat and turned back to the refrigerator, his fingers gripping the handle a little too hard. “It means something.” He leaned into the fridge before I could press him further. “Please pick. Human or orc.”
I wasn’t sure if he was dodging the question or genuinely interested in my choice. “Orc,” I said with a smile. “Surprise me.”
That brought his head up fast enough he banged it on the inside of the fridge. Looking sheepish, he rubbed it and gave me a tusky grin that made my heart flip over and thrust its feet in the air like a pup eager for belly rubs. Relief sparked in his dark eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Orc,” he repeated. “Good.”
I had to wonder what we'd be eating if I'd said human, but I loved trying new dishes, and this was my chance to eat like an orc.
He began pulling items from the fridge. Some kind of meat wrapped in butcher paper and thick stalks of a gnarled root-like vegetable, plus berries so dark they were almost black.
As he smoothly set things on the counter, he whistled, a low, warbling tune that lilted through the room. His hands moved with confidence as he sliced, diced, and stirred things on the stove with a rhythm I could only describe as hypnotic. Where had this version of Tark come from? The slightly clumsy, shy orc who tripped over almost everything had disappeared, replaced by someone who could command the kitchen as though he’d been born here.
Taking the peeled, root-like vegetable he’d grated into a bowl, he added something that looked like flour, only darker, plus milk. Or what I assumed was milk. The carton from the fridge didn't say. As an earthy and slightly sweet scent drifted across the room, tickling my nose, he whisked it all together and set the bowl aside.
Curiosity rushed through me. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
Tark paused, his hand stilling as he reached for the butcher-wrapped package of meat. “An Aunt Inla taught me.” He glanced my way, then quickly dropped his gaze back to his work as if he was caught in a guilty confession. “She said cooking was important. Especially if I ever hoped to win someone’s heart.”
Well, damn.
There was something wonderfully old-fashioned about that. He wasn’t hoping to win my heart, was he?
Before my brain could wander too far into uncharted and slightly dangerous territory, Tark got back to work. The kitchen filled with the sizzle of meat meeting a hot pan, a rich, mouthwatering aroma perking up my senses immediately after. He added liquid from a bottle on the counter, and that sent up a plume of steam, shooting the savory smell throughout the room. My stomach grumbled in approval. Loudly.
A spark of amusement gleamed in his eyes. “You're hungry.”
It wasn’t a question. “Maybe a little.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
He grunted and started crafting palm-sized balls with the grated root, which he delicately dropped into something boiling in another pan. Oil or water; I couldn't tell from here. The balls popped and hissed.
Taking the black berries he'd grabbed earlier, he smashed them in a bowl with big mortar and pestle looking tools until they must've been turned into a dark purple paste. Whatever they were smelled tangy, with a surprising note of sweetness and a hint of citrus.
Sharga watched it all, only once tipping his head back to release a grunting whoop, whoop, whoop sound that made me startle.
“No sorhoxes, Sharga,” Tark chided. “You know they’re not allowed inside the saloon.”
How could the raven know that? I tried to picture those minivan-sized beasts stomping around and the thought made me laugh.
Finally, Tark set two heaping plates on the table, one in front of me and the other in front of the chair he pulled out for himself opposite. The meal looked amazing. He clipped a small dish of food for Sharga to his perch, and the bird tilted his head this way and that, studying the offering before he started pecking.
“I made brimberg.” Sitting, Tark gestured to the meat tips glistening with a light sauce. “We raise brimbergs in the orc kingdom, and I’ve found they taste similar to your steak.” He pointed to the balls he’d crafted from the grated root. “Cragroot fritters with boulderberry dip on the side in the small containers. We plan to offer dishes like this to humans, and we hope they’ll be eager to give them a try.”
“I bet they will. Everything smells and looks wonderful.” I grinned up at him. “You’re quite the cook. Funny that you’re handling social media when you could be running the restaurant instead.”
He gulped and carefully lowered himself into his chair. “I’m…good with social media.” He sounded almost desperate to convince me. “Stupendous, in fact. You’ll see.”
Then why had he hired me?
There was something going on here, and I was determined to figure it out. Until then, I decided to jump into the orc dish—with my fork, that is.
“Let’s eat, shall we?” I said with only a touch of forced cheer. I hated that he seemed uncomfortable, though I wasn’t sure why he was.
Tark nodded, his movements stiff. He watched me, more focused on my reaction than the food in front of him. His fork trembled in his big hand as he speared a cragroot fritter and carefully dipped it in the boulderberry sauce. The green of his knuckles darkened as he clenched the utensil, and he stared at me with an intensity that made my cheeks heat.
I took the smallest bite of the brimberg, letting the meat rest on my tongue. The flavor hit me first, rich like tenderloin but with an earthier undertone, as if it had absorbed hints of whatever wild place it came from.
My eyes widened. “Oh, wow.” I spoke around the bite, covering my mouth with my hand. “This is fantastic. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but seriously, it’s delicious.”
The corner of Tark's lips quirked up, and for a moment, his shoulders dropped like a weight had been lifted.
“You like it,” he said softly, his voice rolling low like the hum of distant thunder. His mouth pulled up further into a shy, tusk-filled smile, and he glanced down at his plate. Was he embarrassed that I was savoring the food he'd prepared?
“Like it? I love it.” I couldn’t stop myself from taking another bite, this time of one of the cragroot fritters. I dipped it into the boulderberry sauce, swirling it a bit before popping it into my mouth. The golden crust crunched under my teeth before melting into something soft and savory, with a touch of sweetness from the berries. The boulderberry sauce brought out a surprising complexity, like the berries had been waiting all their little berry-lives to meet the cragroot. “These?” I held up a fritter. “Are addictive.”
“Thank you.” Tark tried to mask his happiness by taking care while he scooped up another bite, but I saw right through him. His tusks glinted as he ate, his movements still a little uncertain. “I hoped you would enjoy it. Orc food is… It's important. It connects us to the land, to the vast caves we call home. It tastes different here, but the taste still carries memories.”
A small ache bloomed in my chest at the way he said it, and I suspected there was more behind those words than he was letting on. Tark wasn’t only serving me food, he was sharing a part of himself.
It was clear Tark could cook, and when I said cook, I meant like a master chef in a fine restaurant. I should know. I’d eaten at enough of them throughout my life between filming. My parents had enjoyed the money we’d made, perhaps a little too much.
Hence my needing to prove I could make it with my influencer job. While they couldn’t outright steal what I’d made all those years faking a smile on TV, they’d siphoned away what they could. It was only when I’d turned legal that I’d insisted they show me where they’d invested the funds.
Bumbling words and sly glances were followed by them taking me to the bank, where the investment counselor told me I had some funds but that they were locked up until I turned thirty.
Fuck my parents. Fuck that TV show. And fuck the money that should belong to me but was stuck in an account when I needed it to escape.
Mom said I could do the reunion show, that they’d make sure I got the money from that, but when she and Dad started talking about a fake wedding—for me —plus thirteen episodes, I stalked from their house and hadn’t looked back.
I’d make my own way in the world. At least the money would be there in five years.
We finished every bite on our plates, the kind of eating where you didn’t even realize you’d destroyed the entire meal until the empty dish stared back at you like evidence at a crime scene. I leaned back in my chair, unable to stop my groan of satisfaction. Tark perked up at the sound, his dark eyes locking on mine with an expression so warm and hopeful it almost knocked the wind out of me.
“You really did like it,” he said again, as if he needed the confirmation. His fork dropped onto the edge of his empty plate, and something in his posture told me he’d been waiting to see if I left anything untouched, which I hadn’t.
“I more than liked it.” I patted my stomach for extra effect. “If this is what orc food tastes like, I’m going to start campaigning for it in restaurants.”
His smile spread slowly, and it made his whole face light up. His tusks, which I’d originally been slightly wary of, now only added to his charm. “Then there’s hope for our restaurant.” He stood and collected my plate.
I pushed my chair back from the table and got up before he could snatch his own plate. “You cooked, I’ll clean.” Without waiting for him to argue, I grabbed his dish and walked to the sink. His plates were heavier than human ones, thicker, sturdier, and oddly satisfying to handle.
“We could do it together.”
That would be more fun. “Alright.”
Tark followed me, his towering frame filling the little kitchen as he brought over the rest of the dishes from the stove. The size difference between us was almost comical. He stood awkwardly nearby, glancing toward the sink and then back at me, as if unsure where he fit into this new chain of events.
Passing Sharga with the fork I’d left on the table, I paused. “Would he let me touch him?”
“I think so.” Tark scowled at Sharga. “Let her touch you.” His gaze slanted my way. “He likes it when you stroke his back.”
With a tentative hand, I ran my fingertips across the bird’s spine. He looked up at me, studying my face, before he let out a low whoof.
“That means he likes you,” Tark said, all sunny smiles. “He really does.”
I grinned. “I like him too.” After giving the bird a nod, I went to the sink and turned on the faucet, filling it with hot, soapy water.
Turning, Tark leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I'm not used to someone cleaning with me. Doing anything with me, actually.”
And that made me sad.
He fingered a few strands of hair absentmindedly, and for a second, it hit me just how little this big, sweet orc probably let people in. Despite how his brothers appeared to care and the stunning future waiting for him in the bustling new town outside, Tark gave the impression of someone who hadn’t had much in the way of real companionship. His words hung in the air, heavy with loneliness.
“Well,” I said, forcing a lightness into my tone that felt too flimsy. “You’d better get used to it. I'm a pretty hands-on kind of person.”
His ears twitched, and a dark green flush crept from his cheeks up to the tips of them again. “Hands-on,” he said slowly, like he was tucking the phrase away for future use. The way his gaze lingered on mine when he said it sent a ripple through my chest so suddenly I nearly lost my grip on the plate in my hand.
I cleared my throat and scrubbed at the food-slicked dish, focusing way too hard on a speck that probably wasn’t even there. “Do all orcs know how to cook like you, or are you the overachiever in the group?”
A sharp huff escaped him that might’ve been a laugh. “No, not all orcs cook. My brothers don’t. Not much. They get by or leave such things to their mates, Aunt Inla, or they beg me.” He gave me a sidelong glance, his voice dropping. “But they say I’m the best.”
I shifted under his gaze, unsure if it was pride or something more profound glimmering in his expression. The word “mate” sprung up between us again. He’d said it naturally, like it was as simple as describing a friend or sibling, yet every time, it carried an intimacy that made heat climb up my neck. Did his people throw that term around as lightly as humans used “boyfriend” or “girlfriend,” or did it mean something more?
“Well, then.” I kept my eyes down on the streaks of leftover sauce on another plate. “Guess I lucked out. Not every day I get a master chef cooking meals for me.”
“You honor me.”
“Nope. I’m the one who’s honored. So…” I rinsed a plate and placed it in the drying rack for him to collect. “Tell me more about how you and your brothers ended up building a Wild West tourist destination.”
“I have ten brothers and six sisters.”
“Whoa, big family.”
“It’s not uncommon for orcs. We have lots of…well, cum.” He shook his head. “We seven who came to the surface are the youngest. Our home compound is large like in most orc families, and our oldest siblings will inherit most of the land and buildings. We wanted a new start, and the surface offered it to us. We don’t plan to go back. We love it here.” He lifted a plate and carefully dried it before putting it away. “Our king helped fund this venture, though we plan to pay him back as soon as we’re showing a profit.”
“I bet that’ll be fast.”
He flashed his tusks my way. “We hope so.”
He moved closer, reaching to take a plate off the drying rack to wipe and put away, his arm brushing mine. His skin was warm. Really warm. Like he'd been soaking up sunlight all day even though there hadn't been a single beam of it available inside. Something fluttered in my chest, a timid bird trying to break free.
Tark stepped back abruptly, clearing his throat as he eased around me, taking the final dishes from the rack, drying them, then putting them away inside the cupboards.
I busied myself with wiping down the counter, though I kept sneaking glances at him. There was a gentleness to this big orc that I hadn’t seen coming. The way his brow furrowed when he set the plates just so, the way he hovered nearby, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave the kitchen yet. It made my stomach do a funny little flip.
When everything had been tidied, he turned to me, his hands clasped awkwardly in front of him. “I'll escort you to your room.” His deep voice was rougher than usual. “Err, um, little lady.”
My laugh snorted out. “Little lady?”
He gulped in a breath. “Is that wrong?”
“To call me that? No, it's just...old-fashioned, I suppose. I don't believe anyone has called a woman little lady for over a hundred years.”
He smacked his forehead with his palm. “I knew it was wrong to use the streaming images for inspiration. And Dungar’s running classes! I need to tell him that?—”
“No, no, it's not a problem at all. I kind of like it. It makes me feel as if I'm caught in the best part of the old Wild West.”
His head tilted, and he watched me. Did he expect me to reverse course and tell him to stop?
Or… I sensed it was related to something completely different. He thought I’d laugh— at him, not with him.
I’d never.
“Alright, then, good,” he finally said. “Your room. We'll go there together. It’s been a long day.”
He must want to go home, not hang out with me.
Feeling a little sad about that, I nodded, grabbing a towel to dry my damp hands. I wasn’t entirely ready to call it a night. But it was probably best for us to say goodnight. Spending too much time in a small space with Tark might not be the smartest idea. I was here to manage their social media, not fall all over myself because the orc chef of my wildest fantasies had turned out to be amazing. Sweet. And much too handsome.
“Wait here, Sharga,” Tark said as we left the kitchen. “I’ll come back for you.”
We walked across the big, empty saloon, the distant sounds of possibly his brothers moving outside muted as we approached the stairs. Tark walked beside me, his strides slowing to match my pace, though I suspected he could’ve covered the distance in half the time with his long legs.
“You worked really hard in there, and everything tasted wonderful,” I said, breaking the silence as we passed an old portrait hanging on the wall. An older orc, wearing a cowboy hat. How cute. “Have you thought about running the restaurant full-time when it opens?”
He glanced down at me, his dark gaze thoughtful. “Not really. Cooking brings me peace. But I don’t know if that’s my place. My brothers have their roles, and I…” His gaze drifted forward like he was wrestling with how to put his thoughts to words. “I’m not quite sure what my role is yet, but I’m going to find it.”
Peace. That word stuck with me. Was that why he’d seemed so at home in the kitchen, like every worry or insecurity melted away the moment he picked up a knife and cutting board?
“Well, if you ever decide to go for it, I’d say you’ve got the skill to succeed.”
His gaze shot down at me, and he blinked for a moment. “Thank you, Gracie.” He said my name in a low, rich voice, like he was tasting it, and my cheeks heated again.
“It's true,” was all I could say.
As we started up the stairs, a feeling of comfort lingered in the space between us.
We climbed in silence. My pulse kept an erratic beat the whole way. Each rise in the stairwell felt like a countdown, and the space between his shoulder and mine buzzed with all the things I couldn’t give myself permission to want. For now, he moved with a grace that belied his size, though his shoulders looked a little too rigid, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them.
At the top of the stairs, he walked with me down the hall, stopping outside the room he'd shown me earlier.
He looked from the door to me, his eyes widening, before he paused, patting his pockets in quick, jerky movements. “Ah,” he muttered, his brows knitting over his dark eyes. “I had a key for you, didn't I?”
I arched a brow. “Had? As in, past tense?”
“Wait.” He patted his pockets again, more frantic this time, his ears twitching with each sharp movement. “I…” He frowned my way. “I didn't already give it to you, did I?”
I shook my head.
He smacked his temple with his palm again. “I was certain I had. Or I kept it. Didn't mean to do anything like that.” His hand dove into his pants’ pocket, and he yanked out the key, holding it up between us. “Oh good. Here.”
And then he dropped it.
The clinking sound of it bouncing off the hardwood echoed in the hallway. Tark crouched and scooped it up. When he stood and extended it toward me, his ears lay flat against his head.
“Please, um, take it,” he said, his eyes darting to my face like he was gauging my reaction.
There was something incredibly sweet about this exchange—and him. My big, intimidating orc had expertly crafted a gourmet meal from scratch but was now fumbling a simple key handoff. As if I intimidated him. As if I meant something. It was endearing and deeply Tark. My heart gave another one of those little flips.
“Thank you.” I unlocked the door, swinging it wide. He must've expected me to step in, because he started to follow. I pivoted back to say goodbye, and we stumbled together, me tripping on the sill, him maybe on his feet. Whatever happened, we started falling.
He somehow flipped us around so he landed on the floor with me on top of him.
Straddling his chest.
With our mouths only a breath apart.
Something cracked open inside me, something unexpected yet wildly welcome. I leaned in and let the fear fall away.
I kissed him.