Orc’d At A Wedding

Chapter 1

BLISS

I'm going to throw up in a very expensive sink.

The bathroom mirror doesn't lie, which is deeply unfortunate because right now I look like I've been personally victimized by the concept of family obligation.

My carefully applied mascara has migrated south thanks to the humid panic sweating I've been doing for the last twenty minutes, and there's a concerning lipstick smudge on my front tooth that I'm just now noticing. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I grip the marble countertop, real marble, because my cousin Anastasia wouldn't dream of getting married anywhere that didn't require a small business loan just to attend, and breathe.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

Try not to think about how the jasmine perfume I sprayed on three hours ago has now congealed with my stress sweat into something that smells like expensive regret.

My phone sits on the counter next to a basket of rolled hand towels that are somehow both pristine white and completely intimidating. The screen glows with that horrible countdown timer I set.

31 minutes until pre-wedding cocktail hour.

31 minutes until I have to walk into that dining room and prove to my entire extended family that I am not, in fact, a romantic disaster who got dumped six months ago and has been subsisting entirely on takeout and spite.

I grab my phone and open the app again, even though I've checked it approximately four hundred times since I booked this absolutely unhinged solution to my problems. The profile is still there. Still real. Still my last desperate chance at winning the breakup.

Olog G.

Service: Professional Plus-One

Rating: (287 reviews)

Specialties: Formal Events, Family Functions, Intimidation

The profile picture is basically useless—just a dark silhouette that could be anyone from a retired bouncer to a very large shadow. But those reviews. God, those reviews are magnificent.

"Olog made my sister's wedding bearable. 10/10 would fake date again."

"Showed up on time, remembered my fake backstory perfectly, and made my ex-boyfriend cry. Flawless service."

"I hired him to intimidate my judgmental parents. They now ask about him every week. Send help."

I'd laughed when I first read them, sitting on my couch in my apartment three weeks ago, rage-scrolling through my cousin's engagement photos while eating ice cream directly from the container.

The idea had seemed absurd. Hiring someone to pretend to be my boyfriend for a weekend.

Paying actual money to manufacture a relationship impressive enough to shut down my Aunt Susan's passive-aggressive commentary about my biological clock.

But then Anastasia's wedding invitation arrived, cream cardstock so thick it could double as body armor, printed with gold leaf that probably cost more than my car payment, and suddenly the idea didn't seem absurd at all. It seemed like survival.

I check the app again. The little location dot shows he's close. Very close. The estimated arrival time has ticked down to "arriving now," which means I need to stop hiding in this bathroom like a coward and actually go meet the man I've hired to convince my family I'm not dying alone.

The man I've literally never seen a clear picture of.

The man whose profile lists "intimidation" as a specialty, which should probably concern me more than it does.

I fix my lipstick, wipe the smudge off my tooth, and try to fluff some life back into my hair. The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks like she's about to commit a crime, which feels appropriate given I'm essentially committing fraud against my entire family tree.

The silk dress I'm wearing, navy blue, tasteful, hideously expensive—fits perfectly, which means it's absolutely going to betray me the second I start sweating through the fabric from sheer social anxiety.

My heels are tall enough to make my calves look good and high enough to guarantee I'll twist an ankle before Sunday.

I shove my phone into my tiny designer purse, the one I bought specifically for this wedding because Anastasia's save-the-date included a passive-aggressive note about the dress code being "elevated resort formal," which apparently means I can't bring my normal purse because it has a visible coffee stain on the bottom.

One more deep breath. One more moment of preparation.

I can do this. I've survived worse. I've survived my last performance review at work. I've survived that time I accidentally replied-all to a company email with a rant about the coffee machine. I can survive two days of my family if I have the right backup.

I push open the bathroom door and step into the lobby.

The space hits me immediately with that specific kind of wealthy-person-resort energy that makes my bank account weep.

Vaulted ceilings. Enormous windows overlooking the coast. Furniture that looks like it was designed by someone who hates the concept of comfort but loves the aesthetic of "vaguely Scandinavian suffering.

" There are roughly six hundred white orchids scattered throughout the space in arrangements that probably cost more than my college tuition.

And standing near the raw bar, because of course there's a raw bar at two in the afternoon, is Brandon.

My ex-boyfriend Brandon. Brandon with his perfectly tousled blond hair and his country club tan and his new girlfriend who looks like she was grown in a lab specifically to make me feel inadequate.

They're both holding champagne flutes and laughing at something, and the sound carries across the lobby like nails on a chalkboard.

He hasn't seen me yet. I still have time to turn around, flee back to the bathroom, and live there permanently.

Except Aunt Susan is walking toward me from the other direction, her helmet of highlighted hair catching the natural light, her expression already forming into that specific shape of concerned judgment she reserves especially for me.

"Bliss, darling, there you are! We've been looking everywhere for you. Are you here by yourself? I thought you said you were bringing someone?"

Her voice has that sing-song quality that sounds sweet to anyone who doesn't know her but translates directly to "I'm about to emotionally eviscerate you in public" for those of us who do.

I open my mouth to respond, to deploy one of the twelve different excuses I've prepared for this exact scenario, but then the heavy glass doors at the front entrance glide open with a soft mechanical whisper.

The lobby doesn't go silent, that only happens in movies, but there's a definite shift in the ambient noise. Conversations stutter. Someone's champagne flute pauses halfway to their mouth.

Because walking through those doors, moving with the kind of silent, predatory grace that makes every instinct in my body sit up and pay attention, is the largest man I have ever seen in my life.

No. Not a man.

An Orc.

He's massive. Not tall in the normal human sense of "oh, he's over six feet, how nice," but tall in the way that makes my brain short-circuit trying to process the actual scale of him.

He has to be nearly seven feet, built like someone took a classical sculpture and then decided it needed about forty percent more muscle mass.

His shoulders are so broad they make the doorway look smaller.

His three-piece suit, charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, straining magnificently across his thighs, probably required its own zip code of fabric.

His skin is ash-gray, and even from across the lobby I can see the dark sprawl of tattoos covering what looks like every visible inch of him from the neck down.

They disappear beneath his collar and reappear at his wrists, complex black patterns that look simultaneously beautiful and vaguely threatening.

But it's his eyes that make my breath catch.

Silver. Piercing. Scanning the lobby with the focused intensity of someone conducting a tactical assessment.

And then they lock directly onto me.

Every nerve ending in my body lights up like I've been plugged into a wall socket.

He moves toward me with purpose, weaving through the clusters of wedding guests with the kind of fluid efficiency that suggests he's very used to navigating spaces full of people who are trying very hard not to stare at him.

His expression is completely neutral, professional, almost serene, but there's something about the set of his jaw and the slight prominence of his lower tusks that makes him look like he could flip a car if the situation called for it.

Aunt Susan has gone completely still beside me, her mouth forming a small, shocked "o" that would be funny if I wasn't currently experiencing a full-body systems failure.

He stops directly in front of me, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes because oh my gods, he's so much taller up close. The scent of him hits me immediately—bergamot and starched linen and something else, something warm and distinctly male that makes my stomach do a complicated flip.

"Bliss Vance?"

His voice is deep. Devastatingly deep. The kind of voice that resonates in your chest and makes you reconsider every life choice that led to this exact moment.

I nod, because my actual vocal cords have apparently abandoned me.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his phone, glancing at the screen with the businesslike efficiency of someone confirming an appointment.

"Olog Glore. Professional Plus-One services. I have you scheduled for a forty-eight-hour engagement beginning today at twelve hundred hours, concluding Sunday at noon. Is this correct?"

He says it like he's confirming a dental appointment. Like this is the most normal thing in the world.

I find my voice hiding somewhere near my shoes and drag it back up.

"Yes. That's—yes. Correct."

"Excellent."

He slides his phone back into his jacket, and then—without warning, without hesitation, with the kind of smooth confidence that suggests he's done this exact move dozens of times—he leans down and kisses my cheek.

It's brief. Professional. The kind of greeting you'd give a long-term girlfriend you haven't seen in a few hours.

But his lips are warm, and the proximity of him is overwhelming, and I can feel the solid wall of his chest nearly brushing against me, and my brain has officially left the building.

He pulls back, and there's the faintest hint of something in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or just professional satisfaction at a job begun.

"I apologize for the slight delay. Traffic approaching the resort was heavier than anticipated."

Aunt Susan makes a small noise beside me that sounds like a tea kettle achieving consciousness.

Olog's gaze shifts to her with the smooth precision of a security camera locking onto a target.

"You must be family. Olog Glore. A pleasure to meet you."

He extends his hand, and after a moment of visible internal struggle, Aunt Susan takes it. Her hand disappears entirely into his, and she cycles through approximately six different emotions before landing on something that looks like bewildered politeness.

"Susan. Bliss's aunt. I... we didn't realize Bliss was seeing anyone."

"We prefer to keep our relationship private."

The way he says "our relationship" makes something hot and dangerous curl low in my stomach, which is absolutely not a helpful physiological response to have in a hotel lobby surrounded by my judgmental relatives.

"How... how did you two meet?"

I should answer. I'm supposed to have a prepared story. We discussed this over text. But my brain is still stuck on the fact that this enormous, tattooed, devastatingly professional Orc just called me his girlfriend in front of my aunt and I haven't spontaneously combusted.

"Cliff diving," Olog says smoothly, and I nearly choke on my own spit.

Of all the options I'd suggested in my panicked three a.m. messages, he picked cliff diving.

"Bliss was attempting a challenging dive off the coast. I happened to be providing safety consulting for the facility. We began talking. The connection was immediate."

He delivers this absolutely insane lie with the grave sincerity of someone testifying in court.

Aunt Susan looks like she's trying to picture me, a notorious avoider of anything involving heights, physical exertion, or unnecessary risk, voluntarily throwing myself off a cliff.

"Bliss? Cliff diving?"

"I've been exploring new hobbies," I manage, my voice only slightly strangled.

Olog's hand settles on the small of my back, warm and impossibly large, and I feel the touch all the way down to my toes.

"She's quite fearless," he says, and the pride in his voice sounds so genuine that I almost believe it myself.