Page 9 of Marrying My Orc Boss

I watch as Alan looks out into the restaurant floor and turns back with rage boiling on his face. “Her. Again.”

“She’s done this before?” I ask.

“She does it all the time in all the restaurants in town. If we don’t give in to her, she writes us up on Eat Advisor. She has so many followers that a bad review can shut a restaurant down,” Alan explains.

“I guess I’ll make that reduction,” I say.

“No, on the house. I can’t risk it, Sally,” Alan says.

“Whatever you say,” I tell him as I approach her with her doggy bag.

I hand the bag to her, and she snatches it from me. “About time.”

“I’m happy to tell you that your meal is on the house. The manager sends his apologies,” I tell her.

“And don’t be expecting a tip,” the mother says as she turns and marches her family out the door. I stand and watch. I needed that tip. I need every tip. As they reach the door, the father turns round and mouths, ‘Sorry.’

But a sorry won’t pay for my dad’s operation, and it’s closing time soon.

CHAPTER 4

Drakar

One foot in front of the other, I stride onto the green, manicured lawns of the golf club. The peace, the gentle breeze, and the birdsong are a sharp contrast to the boardroom’s tension, but they don’t relax the frown on my face.

“Fucking ridiculous,” I mutter, setting up to tee off.

Someone is trying to sabotage us, and I don’t know who the hell it is. That alone has me gripping my club so tightly that I can feel the rod start to cave under my touch. I rear back and, with a solid swing, smack the golf ball down the fairway with a grace many forget to associate with an orc like myself.

We’re always underestimated in everything we do.

Despite running a successful company as the sole CEO, one single fuck-up has sent everything into chaos, including my reputation.

“As if I’m the one who screwed up.” I continue to grumble, marching off toward where the ball landed.

“Mr. Tvojan,” a passing client greets.

I nod curtly in her direction, forcing a well-practiced smile onto my face. Never does it reach my eyes, but I don’t care to try any harder than this.

As I continue my march down the fairway, a sudden movement catches my eye. A woman, dressed in a white skirt and blouse, is moving briskly and with purpose amidst the leisurely pace of the club. She looks flustered, her auburn hair falling out of its neat bun as she scans the area around her.

The woman's movements are hurried and deliberate as if she has somewhere important to be. Her white skirt flutters around her knees, revealing a pair of sensible black pumps that seem out of place on the manicured greens of the golf course. Her blouse is crisp and pressed, the top buttons undone to reveal a hint of cleavage.

Despite her obvious distress, there's an air of grace and poise about her that makes her stand out among the other golfers. Her auburn hair is swept back into a neat bun, but tendrils have escaped and frame her face in soft curls. Her eyes are a striking green, and they dart around the course as if searching for something, or someone.

As I watch her, I can't help but be drawn in by her beauty. There's a certain vulnerability about her that makes me want to protect her, even though I don't know who she is or what's causing her distress.

When she suddenly disappears from sight behind a group of golfers, I feel a pang of disappointment. I find myself craning my neck to catch another glimpse of her – and there she is. She tosses another glance over her shoulder, and I follow her gaze.

I notice a man trailing behind her. He's dressed in all black, and he moves with a purposeful stride that makes my hackles rise.

A tightness forms in my gut as I watch him. Something about his demeanor sets off alarm bells in my head. He doesn't seem like the type of person who would be at a golf club for leisure.

As he draws closer to the woman, I can see that she's become aware of his presence as well. Her movements become more frantic, and she quickens her pace.

But the man doesn't falter. He continues to follow her, closing the distance between them with each step.

I clench my fists, every instinct telling me to intervene. But something holds me back. I'm not sure if it's the fear of making a scene or the knowledge that I don't know the whole story.

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