Page 22 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
"You paint the edges and corners first with a brush. Then you roll." He jerks his chin at the roller. “Let's just wash this poor thing and start again with the brush.”
I glance back at the wall and sure enough, the paint is streaked with uneven drips, like it's been sobbing its green heart out. I groan.
"Do the trim first. Got it."
"But you need to learn to do it the right way." He grabs a clean brush from the supplies on the counter and hands it to me. "Now, dip it only about a third in and wipe the excess off."
I roll my eyes but take the brush, dipping it into the paint. With a sigh, I crouch down to start on the baseboards, determined to prove I don’t need his hovering.
"Wait." Gerralt’s voice is closer this time, and I feel the heat of him at my back before I even look up.
"I’ve got this," I snap, a little breathless as I swipe at the trim, only to smear a streak of green onto the floor.
"Just let me help you." He crouches beside me, his large hand covering mine as he steadies the brush. My breath catches as his fingers wrap around mine, his grip firm but careful. His touch is warm, his skin rough against mine, and suddenly, the air in the room feels too thick.
"Hold it like this," he says, his voice lower, softer. He adjusts my grip, angling the brush just so. "Light pressure. Don’t smear the paint, just spread. Better to dip it in paint again than to smear it or put too much on your brush."
I nod, barely hearing his words over the sudden pounding of my pulse. He’s so close now I can feel the heat radiating from his body, his broad chest just inches from my back. His scent—pine and something warm and earthy, something masculine and alluring—fills my senses, making me lightheaded.
"Try again," he says in a voice so low it’s almost a whisper, his breath brushing against my ear. I shiver, my hands trembling slightly as I let him guide me through the next stroke. The line is clean, perfect, andI should feel victorious, but all I can focus on is the way his touch lingers, the way his thumb brushes against mine as he pulls back.
"There," he says, standing up and stepping away from me. "Now you can finish the trim."
"Thanks," I manage, my voice a little too high-pitched. I stare at the wall, refusing to look at him, afraid he’ll see the flush in my cheeks. Or worse, the way my body still buzzes from his touch, like the aftermath of an electric shock.
"You’ve got paint on your face," he says after a beat, his tone gruff but quieter than usual.
"Huh?" I glance at him, and before I can react, he’s stepping forward again, his thumb swiping gently across my cheek. His touch is fleeting, but I don’t miss the way his gaze goes to my mouth.
"There," he mutters, stepping back as quickly as he’d approached. His expression is unreadable, his amber eyes shadowed as he turns away and busies himself with the countertops. "Get to work. That wall’s not gonna paint itself."
I nod, gripping the paintbrush like it’s a lifeline as I focus on the wall again. As I paint, I steal glances at him from time to time. He doesn’t look at me once, his focus entirely on his work. But there’s a tension in his shoulders, a stiffness in the way he moves that wasn’t there before.
For the first time, I wonder if Gerralt Banesman is as unaffected by me as he seems.
Chapter Ten
Gerralt
Thegravelcrunchesundermy truck tires as I pull into Bernice's driveway. The last streaks of pink and gold stretch across the sky, painting the weathered siding of my grandmother’s house in soft autumn light. Smoke curls from the chimney, carrying the scent of burning applewood that mingles with damp leaves and the fragrance from Gran's herb garden.
The knot in my chest loosens by just a fraction as I stare at the house that saw me grow into the man I am today. It’s likea refuge from the passage of time, a place that never truly changed throughout the decades.
Bernice walks past a window, absorbed in whatever tasks she busies herself with, not paying attention to the truck in her driveway. I’m no fool, though. My grandmother’s hearing is as sharp as ever and I know she heard my truck coming from a block away.
Still, she’s too proud to hover by the window. And I love her for it.
I grab my toolbox from the passenger seat and step out into the crisp dawn air. My boots thud against the wooden steps as I climb onto the porch. Before I can knock, the door swings open, and there's Bernice, her weathered green face splitting into a wide grin.
"Well, isn't this a surprise!" She wraps her arms around me in a quick hug that I return, careful not to squeeze too hard. "What brings you by without calling first? Not that I'm complaining."
"I just wanted to check that leak under your sink," I answer, avoiding her sharp amber gaze. "Make sure the fix is holding up."
Her eyebrow lifts, but she steps aside to let me in. The familiar scents of chamomile, woodsmoke, and herbal concoctions wrap around me like a warm blanket. A kettle whistles softly on the woodburning stove.
I head straight for the kitchen, kneeling to inspect the pipes under the sink. The wrench feels heavy in my hand as I give the pipes a perfunctory twist, my shoulders hunching with the knowledge of how transparent my excuse is. Water runs clear and steady, no drips in sight. My repair work from three weeks ago is holding perfectly.
Just like I knew it would.
