Page 18 of Wrangling the Orc Cowboy

“Like it? I love it.” I couldn’t stop myself from taking another bite, this time of one of the cragroot fritters. I dipped it into the boulderberry sauce, swirling it a bit before popping it into my mouth. The golden crust crunched under my teeth before melting into something soft and savory, with a touch of sweetness from the berries. The boulderberry sauce brought out a surprising complexity, like the berries had been waiting all their little berry-lives to meet the cragroot. “These?” I held up a fritter. “Are addictive.”

“Thank you.” Tark tried to mask his happiness by taking care while he scooped up another bite, but I saw right through him. His tusks glinted as he ate, his movements still a little uncertain. “I hoped you would enjoy it. Orc food is… It's important. It connects us to the land, to the vast caves we call home. It tastes different here, but the taste still carries memories.”

A small ache bloomed in my chest at the way he said it, and I suspected there was more behind those words than he was letting on. Tark wasn’t only serving me food, he was sharing a part of himself.

It was clear Tark could cook, and when I said cook, I meant like a master chef in a fine restaurant. I should know. I’d eaten at enough of them throughout my life between filming. My parents had enjoyed the money we’d made, perhaps a little too much.

Hence my needing to prove I could make it with my influencer job. While they couldn’t outright steal what I’d made all those years faking a smile on TV, they’d siphoned away what they could. It was only when I’d turned legal that I’d insisted they show me where they’d invested the funds.

Bumbling words and sly glances were followed by them taking me to the bank, where the investment counselor told me I hadsomefunds but that they were locked up until I turned thirty.

Fuck my parents. Fuck that TV show. And fuck the money that should belong to me but was stuck in an account when I needed it to escape.

Mom said I could do the reunion show, that they’d make sure I got the money from that, but when she and Dad started talking about a fake wedding—forme—plus thirteen episodes, I stalked from their house and hadn’t looked back.

I’d make my own way in the world. At least the money would be there in five years.

We finished every bite on our plates, the kind of eating where you didn’t even realize you’d destroyed the entire meal until the empty dish stared back at you like evidence at a crime scene. I leaned back in my chair, unable to stop my groan of satisfaction. Tark perked up at the sound, his dark eyes locking on mine with an expression so warm and hopeful it almost knocked the wind out of me.

“You really did like it,” he said again, as if he needed the confirmation. His fork dropped onto the edge of his empty plate, and something in his posture told me he’d been waiting to see if I left anything untouched, which I hadn’t.

“I more than liked it.” I patted my stomach for extra effect. “If this is what orc food tastes like, I’m going to start campaigning for it in restaurants.”

His smile spread slowly, and it made his whole face light up. His tusks, which I’d originally been slightly wary of, now only added to his charm. “Then there’s hope forourrestaurant.” He stood and collected my plate.

I pushed my chair back from the table and got up before he could snatch his own plate. “You cooked, I’ll clean.” Withoutwaiting for him to argue, I grabbed his dish and walked to the sink. His plates were heavier than human ones, thicker, sturdier, and oddly satisfying to handle.

“We could do it together.”

That would be more fun. “Alright.”

Tark followed me, his towering frame filling the little kitchen as he brought over the rest of the dishes from the stove. The size difference between us was almost comical. He stood awkwardly nearby, glancing toward the sink and then back at me, as if unsure where he fit into this new chain of events.

Passing Sharga with the fork I’d left on the table, I paused. “Would he let me touch him?”

“I think so.” Tark scowled at Sharga. “Let her touch you.” His gaze slanted my way. “He likes it when you stroke his back.”

With a tentative hand, I ran my fingertips across the bird’s spine. He looked up at me, studying my face, before he let out a low whoof.

“That means he likes you,” Tark said, all sunny smiles. “He really does.”

I grinned. “I like him too.” After giving the bird a nod, I went to the sink and turned on the faucet, filling it with hot, soapy water.

Turning, Tark leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I'm not used to someone cleaning with me. Doing anything with me, actually.”

And that made me sad.

He fingered a few strands of hair absentmindedly, and for a second, it hit me just how little this big, sweet orc probably let people in. Despite how his brothers appeared to care and the stunning future waiting for him in the bustling new town outside, Tark gave the impression of someone who hadn’t had much in the way of real companionship. His words hung in the air, heavy with loneliness.

“Well,” I said, forcing a lightness into my tone that felt too flimsy. “You’d better get used to it. I'm a pretty hands-on kind of person.”

His ears twitched, and a dark green flush crept from his cheeks up to the tips of them again. “Hands-on,” he said slowly, like he was tucking the phrase away for future use. The way his gaze lingered on mine when he said it sent a ripple through my chest so suddenly I nearly lost my grip on the plate in my hand.

I cleared my throat and scrubbed at the food-slicked dish, focusing way too hard on a speck that probably wasn’t even there. “Do all orcs know how to cook like you, or are you the overachiever in the group?”

A sharp huff escaped him that might’ve been a laugh. “No, not all orcs cook. My brothers don’t. Not much. They get by or leave such things to their mates, Aunt Inla, or they beg me.” He gave me a sidelong glance, his voice dropping. “But they say I’m the best.”

I shifted under his gaze, unsure if it was pride or something more profound glimmering in his expression. The word “mate” sprung up between us again. He’d said it naturally, like it was as simple as describing a friend or sibling, yet every time, it carried an intimacy that made heat climb up my neck. Did his people throw that term around as lightly as humans used “boyfriend” or “girlfriend,” or did it mean something more?

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