Page 13 of My Orc (Secret) Boss

But whenever I crossed that alley on my way to my apartment, I could smell the gunpowder, hear the shot, feel my leg being torn out from underneath me. It had been in the middle of the Christmas parade, andJingle Bell Rock—which the high school pep band had been playing in the distance—was always going to remind me of the smell of my own blood.

Maya was explaining her plans for the landscaping job. “After we take down all the limbs that look sketchy, we’re going to revitalize the beds themselves. The rhododendron bushes seem in okay condition, and I love how big they’ve gotten, even though they’re not native on the sea islands. We’re going to put in flowers and bushes around them, but not bulbs. I want to focus on native grasses and pollinators, like muhly grass, coneflowers, and wild indigo. We’ll have a purple theme going?—”

When we turned down Roe Row, she suddenly shut up.

It was such a surprise, I glanced down at her. She was staring at the far wall, at the exact place where I’d laid after getting shot. Did she know?

I saw her bite her lower lip. And then, without looking up at me, Maya slid her hand into mine.

It was so unexpected, I forgot to pull back. I don’t like being touched. Right? But somehow, she’d made it seem so natural, I didn’t flinch.

In fact, my fingers curled around hers, as if I could protectthemfrom the horrors of that area. When in reality, she was trying to protect me.

Huh.

I cleared my throat. “How about some orange?”

Her confused gaze jerked to mine as we turned down the back alley toward our door. I elaborated. “Milkweed blooms orange. It’d look good with all the purples, and it’s good for?—”

“The butterflies,” she breathed, wide-eyed. “Iloveit, Memnon, yes! Oh my gosh, we could turn the park into a monarch butterfly oasis—wait, maybe that would be better along the boardwalk at the nature reserve?”

Whatever had passed between us on Roe Row dissipated as she chattered on about plans.

But she didn’t release my hand, even as we climbed the stairs to my apartment.

Once up there, though, I gently untangled our fingers so I could go check on the food as she explored the space.

And you know what?

I didn’t hate it. I didn’t hate having her there in my space. I could hear her,feelher moving around, and I didn’t hate it, the same way I didn’t hate when she’d taken my hand.

Huh.

“You want beer? Water? Milk?” I was standing in front of the fridge, trying to figure out what I had to offer.

From the living room, she called back, “Whatever you’re having is fine, thanks. This painting is lovely, did you do it?”

I snorted and grabbed two beers, popping the tops as I strolled into the living room. As I expected, she was standing in front of the big framed painting that hung between the two front windows. Beneath it was a long table that held a picture taken of me and Simbel when we graduated from the academy, a carved wooden tray for our keys and wallets, and those stupid elastic bands I was supposed to be using for PT.

I stepped up beside Maya and tipped my head back to stare at the artwork. I really needed to put in some kind of better lighting. Still, it was gorgeous on its own.

Without looking at her, I held out the beer, and felt her fingers brush mine as she took it.

“Nah, I didn’t paint it. That’s Karnak’s work. He’s an artist, trying to keep our traditions alive. He said he painted it last year and didn’t know why, then when we moved here, he just knew we had to have it.”

That’s not what he’d said. He’d saidIneeded to have it, but it was easier to lump my brother in with me.

Maya’s hand rose in my peripheral vision, and I saw her fingers reaching for the stand of aspen trees. “It’s stunning. I can almost hear the water. Is this what it looks like?”

When she asked that question, she twisted to stare up at me. I raised a brow. “What looks like?”

“Is it really that beautiful? Your home?”

Home.

She’d seen it. Shegotit. I exhaled slowly, staring up at the painting. Karnak had captured a mountain stream, the highlights and shadows and movement. While his art was more often anideathan reality, this painting looked like it had stepped from my memories.

“Yeah,” I finally admitted. “It really is that beautiful.”

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