Chapter 4
LACY
The festival display looks like a disaster.
I step back. Survey the chaos spread across the cafe floor. Fabric samples. Poster board. Stone's hand-drawn diagrams that are equal parts brilliant and incomprehensible.
"This isn't working," I say.
Stone sits cross-legged amid the wreckage. A green mountain surrounded by creative carnage. He's holding two different spice jars like he's weighing which one represents his entire cultural identity better.
"The cardamom or the sumac?" he asks.
"Neither. Both. I don't know." I press my palms against my eyes. "We need a cohesive visual story. Right now it looks like a craft store exploded."
"Is that bad?"
"For a heritage festival? Yes."
He places both jars on the table. Studies the mess with those soft brown eyes that make him look perpetually worried about disappointing someone.
"Tell me what you see," he says. "When you look at this."
I lower my hands. Really look.
"Chaos. Good intentions. No clear throughline."
"Okay." He nods. "What should someone see?"
"Your story. Why you're here. What you're building."
"And what am I building?"
The question catches me off guard. Because it's not rhetorical. He genuinely wants to know what I think he's creating here.
I sink down beside him. The floor is hard under my jeans.
"A bridge," I say slowly. "Between where you came from and where you are now. Between orc traditions and city life. Between isolation and community."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"That's better than my answer," he finally says.
"What was your answer?"
"A place people won't make me leave."
The honesty punches straight through my chest. I turn to face him fully.
"Stone."
"It's fine." He picks up a fabric sample. Green linen that matches his skin. "I know how it sounds. Desperate. But Darius was right. Blair is circling. The program review is coming. I need to prove I belong here before someone decides I don't."
"You do belong here."
"Because you say so?"
"Because you show up every day and crush cardamom and draw terrible shelf diagrams and apologize to espresso machines." I grab his wrist. Make him look at me. "Because people line up for what you create. Because Mrs. Kowalski threatens violence on your behalf. Because this matters."
His hand turns under mine. Our fingers tangle. The fabric sample falls forgotten.
"I'm scared," I admit. "That I'll fail. That the festival will be a disaster. That the grant inspector will see through all of this and realize I have no idea what I'm doing. That I'm just a librarian playing entrepreneur and it's all going to collapse."
"You're not playing."
"How do you know?"
"Because playing doesn't keep you here until nine at night trying to make festival displays work.
Playing doesn't mean you memorize your aunt's prescription schedule and customer preferences and which distributor gives the best bulk rates.
" He squeezes my hand. "Playing is what people do when they don't care about the outcome. You care so much it's terrifying."
No one has said that to me before. Not my ex, who thought my "projects" were distractions. Not my friends, who worry I'm taking on too much. Not even Aunt Rene, who just wants me to be happy.
But Stone sees it. The caring that borders on obsession. The fear wrapped up in trying.
"I feel like an exhibit," he says quietly. "In human eyes. The orc who makes coffee. The cultural exchange novelty. Look at the big green guy trying so hard to fit in. Isn't it charming how earnest he is."
"That's not how I see you."
"How do you see me?"
The question hangs between us. His thumb traces circles on the inside of my wrist. I can feel my pulse jumping against his touch.
"I see someone who writes apology notes with muffin doodles. Who brings hand-drawn shelving plans like they're love letters to organization. Who crushes spices like it's a holy ritual." I lean closer. "Who makes me feel less alone in this whole terrifying mess."
His eyes search my face. Looking for what, I don't know. Permission, maybe. Or confirmation that I mean it.
"Lacy."
Just my name. But the way he says it, low and rough and wondering, it does something to my nervous system.
I close the distance.
Kiss him.
It's not graceful. Our noses bump. I taste cardamom on his lips and coffee on his breath and something else that's just him. He makes a sound like he's been hit. Freezes for half a second.
Then his hand comes up to cup my jaw. Gentle. Careful. Like I'm one of those brittle fantasy novel pages he handled so tenderly.
The kiss deepens.
His mouth is warm. Slightly chapped. He kisses like he does everything else. Earnest and thorough and completely present. No performance. No smooth moves. Just honest want.
I thread my fingers through his hair. It's coarser than I expected. Thick. I pull him closer and he comes willingly. His other hand finds my waist. Spans it. The size difference registers in my body like an electric shock.
He's so big. Not threatening. Just substantial. Real. Warm and solid and here.
We break apart gasping.
"Oh," he breathes.
I laugh. Can't help it. The sound comes out breathy and surprised and maybe a little hysterical.
"Oh?" I repeat.
"I don't have better words right now." He rests his forehead against mine. "My brain stopped working."
"Same."
We stay like that. Breathing the same air. His thumb stroking my cheekbone. My hands still tangled in his hair.
"This is probably a terrible idea," I say.
"Definitely."
"We're business partners. Sort of. I'm your program liaison. There are probably rules."
"Several rules."
"And the timing is awful. The festival. Blair. The grant review."
"Truly the worst timing."
"So we should stop."
"Absolutely should stop."
Neither of us moves.
"I don't want to stop," I whisper.
"Me neither."
He kisses me again. Slower this time. Deliberate. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck. Fingers spreading. Holding me like I'm precious.
I make an embarrassing sound into his mouth. He swallows it. Angles his head for better access. The kiss turns hungry. Desperate. Like we're both trying to prove something to each other through touch alone.
When we step back again, I'm halfway in his lap. Not sure how that happened. His hands bracket my hips. Steadying. Not presuming.
"Come over tonight," I blurt.
His eyes go wide. "Tonight?"
"After we finish this. Come over. We can order takeout and talk and figure out what this is."
"What if what this is, is a complication we can't afford right now?"
"Then we'll figure that out too." I cup his face. Feel the slight scrape of stubble under my palms. "But I want to know. I want to try. Do you?"
He searches my face again. Whatever he finds there makes something settle in his expression.
"Yes."
"Okay then."
"Okay."
We grin at each other like idiots. Then I extract myself from his lap because if I don't, we'll never get this display finished.
"Right." I clear my throat. "Festival display. Cohesive visual story. Bridge metaphor."
"Bridge metaphor," he echoes. Still looking slightly dazed.
I pick up the green linen. Hold it against the poster board options.
"What if we arrange it chronologically? Your journey from the settlement to here. Show the evolution. Traditional to fusion to whatever comes next."
He blinks. Focuses. His brain clearly rebooting.
"A timeline," he says slowly.
"With physical examples. Spices. Cooking tools. Photos if you have them. Your terrible poetry."
"My poetry isn't going in a public display."
"Fine. But the concept stands. Show where you came from. Show where you are. Let people draw their own conclusions about the bridge."
He nods. Picks up his notebook. Starts sketching.
I watch his hands move. The same hands that just cradled my face. The same careful attention he gave to kissing me now focused on mapping out display logistics.
My phone dings. Aunt Rene checking in. I text back that I'll be late. Working on festival stuff.
She responds with a smiley face and "don't work too hard."
If she only knew.
"Okay." Stone shows me his sketch. "Three sections. Settlement life. Transition period. City integration. Each one showing the fusion process through food."
"That's perfect."
"We can use the green linen as a backdrop. Hang dried herbs and spices. Create depth."
"And lighting. We need good lighting to highlight the spice colors."
"I have some lanterns. Orc-style. They'd add ambiance."
"Yes. Ambiance is good."
We dive back into the chaos. But now it has structure. Purpose. We sort fabric by section. Arrange spice jars in visual gradients. Stone tells me stories about each ingredient while I take notes for placard text.
"This one is fire-root," he says, holding up a gnarled red spice. "We use it in coming-of-age ceremonies. It's supposed to represent the burn of growth. Painful but necessary."
"That's beautiful."
"It also gives you terrible heartburn if you use too much."
I snort. "Do we include that in the description?"
"Probably not."
The work settles us. Gives us something to do with our hands that isn't touching each other. But the awareness crackles between us anyway. Every time we reach for the same thing. Every time our shoulders brush.
Around eight, Stone orders us food from the Thai place down the street. We eat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by organized chaos. The display is taking shape now. Visible progress.
"Tell me about the settlement," I say between bites of pad thai.
He chews thoughtfully. Swallows.
"It's beautiful in its own way. Harsh, but honest. Everyone knows their role. There's comfort in that. In tradition. In doing things the way they've always been done."
"But?"
"But I wanted more. Not better. Just different. I wanted to see what else was possible. What I could create if I had access to different ingredients. Different ideas. Different everything."
"Did people understand that?"