Page 19 of Wrangling the Orc Cowboy

“Well, then.” I kept my eyes down on the streaks of leftover sauce on another plate. “Guess I lucked out. Not every day I get a master chef cooking meals for me.”

“You honor me.”

“Nope. I’m the one who’s honored. So…” I rinsed a plate and placed it in the drying rack for him to collect. “Tell me more about how you and your brothers ended up building a Wild West tourist destination.”

“I have ten brothers and six sisters.”

“Whoa, big family.”

“It’s not uncommon for orcs. We have lots of…well, cum.” He shook his head. “We seven who came to the surface are the youngest. Our home compound is large like in most orc families, and our oldest siblings will inherit most of the land and buildings. We wanted a new start, and the surface offered it to us. We don’t plan to go back. We love it here.” He lifted a plate and carefully dried it before putting it away. “Our king helped fund this venture, though we plan to pay him back as soon as we’re showing a profit.”

“I bet that’ll be fast.”

He flashed his tusks my way. “We hope so.”

He moved closer, reaching to take a plate off the drying rack to wipe and put away, his arm brushing mine. His skin was warm. Really warm. Like he'd been soaking up sunlight all day even though there hadn't been a single beam of it available inside. Something fluttered in my chest, a timid bird trying to break free.

Tark stepped back abruptly, clearing his throat as he eased around me, taking the final dishes from the rack, drying them, then putting them away inside the cupboards.

I busied myself with wiping down the counter, though I kept sneaking glances at him. There was a gentleness to this big orc that I hadn’t seen coming. The way his brow furrowed when he set the plates just so, the way he hovered nearby, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave the kitchen yet. It made my stomach do a funny little flip.

When everything had been tidied, he turned to me, his hands clasped awkwardly in front of him. “I'll escort you to your room.” His deep voice was rougher than usual. “Err, um, little lady.”

My laugh snorted out. “Little lady?”

He gulped in a breath. “Is that wrong?”

“To call me that? No, it's just...old-fashioned, I suppose. I don't believe anyone has called a woman little lady for over a hundred years.”

He smacked his forehead with his palm. “I knew it was wrong to use the streaming images for inspiration. And Dungar’s running classes! I need to tell him that?—”

“No, no, it's not a problem at all. I kind of like it. It makes me feel as if I'm caught in the best part of the old Wild West.”

His head tilted, and he watched me. Did he expect me to reverse course and tell him to stop?

Or… I sensed it was related to something completely different. He thought I’d laugh—athim, not with him.

I’d never.

“Alright, then, good,” he finally said. “Your room. We'll go there together. It’s been a long day.”

He must want to go home, not hang out with me.

Feeling a little sad about that, I nodded, grabbing a towel to dry my damp hands. I wasn’t entirely ready to call it a night. But it was probably best for us to say goodnight. Spending too much time in a small space with Tark might not be the smartest idea. I was here to manage their social media, not fall all over myself because the orc chef of my wildest fantasies had turned out to be amazing. Sweet. And much too handsome.

“Wait here, Sharga,” Tark said as we left the kitchen. “I’ll come back for you.”

We walked across the big, empty saloon, the distant sounds of possibly his brothers moving outside muted as we approached the stairs. Tark walked beside me, his strides slowing to match my pace, though I suspected he could’ve covered the distance in half the time with his long legs.

“You worked really hard in there, and everything tasted wonderful,” I said, breaking the silence as we passed an old portrait hanging on the wall. An older orc, wearing a cowboy hat.How cute. “Have you thought about running the restaurant full-time when it opens?”

He glanced down at me, his dark gaze thoughtful. “Not really. Cooking brings me peace. But I don’t know if that’s my place. My brothers have their roles, and I…” His gaze drifted forward like he was wrestling with how to put his thoughts to words. “I’m not quite sure what my role is yet, but I’m going to find it.”

Peace. That word stuck with me. Was that why he’d seemed so at home in the kitchen, like every worry or insecurity melted away the moment he picked up a knife and cutting board?

“Well, if you ever decide to go for it, I’d say you’ve got the skill to succeed.”

His gaze shot down at me, and he blinked for a moment. “Thank you, Gracie.” He said my name in a low, rich voice, like he was tasting it, and my cheeks heated again.

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