Biker Orc Baby Daddy

Chapter 1

CECIE

The woman trying to shoplift eyeshadow palettes has clearly never committed a crime before.

She's hovering near my clearance bin like a heron stalking minnows, bent at the waist, one hand buried in discount glitter bombs while the other clutches a handbag the size of a small refrigerator.

Amateur. I don't even need to look up from restocking my lip stain display to clock the theft in progress.

"Those shades wash you out." I slide a trio of berry-toned tubes into their acrylic holder. "Try the coral family. Third row, left side."

The woman jerks upright. Two compacts clatter back into the bin.

"I wasn't, I mean, I was just—"

"Browsing. I know." I finally meet her eyes and offer my most disarming smile. The one that says we're all friends here, but I will absolutely ban you if you test me. "Coral. Trust me on this."

She scurries toward the corals like I've absolved her sins. Which, technically, I have. She'll buy something now out of guilt, and I'll make rent for another week on this glorified folding table I'm calling Sparkle Beauty.

Pop-up retail. The business model of champions and the deeply delusional.

I smooth my bandana, today's is covered in tiny lipstick prints,and survey my kingdom.

Eight feet of rented plaza space wedged between Fishborn Financial and a specialty tea shop that only sells beverages that taste like punishment.

My entire inventory fits in six plastic bins that I haul here every morning in my hatchback, and every evening I pack it all back up like a glittery Cinderella fleeing the ball.

Temporary. Scrappy. Mine.

The woman emerges with three coral lipsticks and a guilty flush.

"You're a lifesaver," she says, thrusting cash at me.

"Just doing the Lord's work, one undertone at a time." I count her change, add a sample packet of highlighter because she looks like she needs a win today, and send her off with a cheerful wave.

The second she's gone, I slump against my table and check my phone. Two hours until I can pack up. My feet already hate me, my lower back is staging a formal protest, and I'm ninety percent sure there's glitter in my bra.

Again.

Glamorous entrepreneur life.

"Cecie!"

I don't even have to turn around to identify the voice. Colum Fishborn approaches all human interactions like a game show host seeing the camera's red light flick on.

"Colum." I straighten and plaster on my customer-service smile. "What can I do for you? Finally ready to admit you need a skincare routine?"

He clutches his chest in mock offense. Today's blazer is navy with contrast stitching, worn over a T-shirt that reads FISCALLY IRRESPONSIBLE. The man dresses like a Pinterest board gained sentience.

"My skin is glowing, thank you very much. No, I come bearing gifts." He whips out two cocktail napkins printed with an address. "You. Me. Victory celebration. Tonight."

I take one napkin and squint at the smudged text. "The Iron Horse? Isn't that the motorcycle bar off Highway 9?"

"The very same! I've rented out the back patio.

" He spreads his arms wide, nearly smacking a passing customer.

"Fishborn Financial has officially survived its first quarter in Poplar Springs Plaza, and I'm throwing a party to celebrate not going bankrupt.

Free drinks, fried appetizers, and the kind of questionable jukebox choices that build character. "

"Colum, I barely know you. We've exchanged maybe six conversations, half of which involved you asking if I sell beard oil."

"Which you should. Untapped market." He taps the napkin still in my hand. "Come anyway. Bring a friend. Bring several friends. The more bodies, the better the photo ops for my social media."

Ah. There it is.

"You want me to be atmosphere."

"I want you to enjoy free jalapeno poppers and bear witness to my glory." He flashes that wide, shameless grin. "Is that so wrong?"

I should say no. I have inventory to organize, a business plan to stress over, and a standing date with my bathtub and a glass of wine I can't really afford. But the napkin smells like possibility and hot wings, and I've been eating cereal for dinner three nights a week.

"What time?"

"Eight. Don't dress up. The Iron Horse has a strict 'no black-tie' policy." He's already backing away, grin widening. "You won't regret this, Cecie. I throw a legendary mid-tier office party."

He vanishes into Fishborn Financial before I can change my mind.

I look at the napkin. Back at my bins of glitter and hope. At the tea shop next door, where someone is definitely suffering through a cup of whatever "Digestive Clarity Blend" promises.

Free food. Worst case, you leave early and still come out ahead.

I tuck the napkin into my apron pocket, right next to the tin labeled Calm and my emergency safety pins.

The Iron Horse smells like leather, fryer grease, and years of spilled beer that have seeped into the floorboards and become structural.

I love it immediately.

The back patio Colum rented is strung with white string lights that flicker like they're considering giving up.

Mismatched picnic tables crowd the space, already occupied by people I vaguely recognize from the plaza—the yoga studio owner, a few financial-sector types in business casual, someone from the tea shop who looks like they've never seen fried food before and aren't sure how to proceed.

Colum stands near the bar, holding court with a rocks glass and entirely too much confidence.

I grab a cocktail from a passing server, something involving lime and poor decisions, and claim a corner seat where I can people-watch in peace.

The jukebox kicks into a hair-metal ballad. Two women from the yoga studio immediately start singing along, off-key and enthusiastic. The tea shop employee takes a single bite of a jalapeno popper and nearly ascends to another plane of existence.

This is exactly the kind of chaotic, low-stakes event I didn't know I needed.

I'm debating a second drink when the patio door opens and someone new walks in.

Tall. Broad. Leather jacket worn soft with age, stretched across shoulders that suggest he either lifts weights or moves furniture for a living.

Dark hair, strong jaw, and a stone face, handsome but clearly orc.

Faint greenish tint to his skin, orc, definitely, and the kind of casual, easy stride that says he's walked into a hundred bars exactly like this one.

Tattoos peek out from his collar. Tribal patterns, or maybe just decorative. Hard to tell in the string-light glow.

He scans the patio with the slow deliberation of someone who can't quite see clearly, then makes his way toward the bar.

Well.

I take a sip of my drink and absolutely do not stare.

Except I do. A little.

He orders something short and amber, leans against the bar, and promptly gets jostled by an over-enthusiastic Colum, who claps him on the shoulder and shouts something I can't hear over the music.

The orc nods, says something brief, and Colum laughs like it's the funniest thing he's heard all week before bouncing off to harass the yoga crowd.

The orc stays at the bar. Alone.

You should not walk over there. You should finish your drink, eat one more popper, and leave like a responsible adult.

I'm halfway across the patio before I finish the thought.

"You look lost," I say, sliding onto the stool beside him.

He turns, and even through the sunglasses I can tell he's squinting at me.

"Do I?" His voice is low, rough-edged. Not unfriendly, just careful.

"Little bit. You've been scanning the room like you're looking for someone."

"Can't see much without—" He stops. Ahem. "Just getting my bearings."

Without what? His glasses?

I file that away and sip my drink. "Friend of Colum's?"

"Work associate." He shifts slightly, and the leather jacket creaks. "You?"

"Retail shop neighbor. He bribed me with free food."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Smart man."

I grab a coaster and scrawl Sis in my usual looping script, sliding it toward him. In case you forget who to thank for the life advice. He tucks it into his leather jacket without a word.

"Debatable. But the poppers are solid."

This time he does smile, and it's lopsided, a little sheepish. There's a dimple involved. My drink suddenly tastes much more interesting.

"Ridge," he says, offering a hand.

"Sis" I shake. His palm is warm, his grip firm but not showy. The henna tattoos extend past his wrist as geometric lines and dots that look freshly done.

"Sis," he repeats, like he's testing it. "That short for something?"

"Nope. Just Sis. My parents believed in efficiency." I can't tell if he's hard of hearing or maybe can't pronounce Sis, but I don't correct him.

"Respect." He takes a sip of his whiskey, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. Stop it. "What kind of retail shop?"

"Beauty supplies. Makeup, skincare, the occasional emergency hair tie. Anything that makes someone feel a little more like themselves."

He considers this with more gravity than the topic probably deserves. "Important work."

"Thank you. Most people assume I'm just peddling glitter."

"Are you?"

"I'm also peddling glitter. But with purpose." Oh, a new log line for my business. Glitter. With Purpose. Maybe alcohol is good for brainstorming.

That earns me a real laugh, short and surprised, like he wasn't expecting it. The dimple deepens. I'm in trouble.

The jukebox shifts to something slower, a bluesy number with a lot of slide guitar.

The patio crowd has started to thin as people drift toward the main bar or out to the parking lot.

Colum's holding court near the appetizer table, performing some kind of dramatic toast that involves standing on a chair.

Ridge watches him with the patience of someone who's seen this routine before.

"How long have you worked with him?" I ask.

"Long enough to know when to let him tire himself out." He adjusts sleeveless leather top. "He means well."

"High praise."