Page 23 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
"All fixed, then?" Bernice asks from the doorway to the kitchen, her tone dry as kindling. Her amber eyes catch mine in that knowing way that always made lying to her impossible, even when I was an orcling.
"Yeah, looks good." I straighten up, ducking my head to avoid her gaze and nearly bumping it on the sink cabinet. My ears burn as I'm caught in my own weak excuse.
But as sharp as Bernice is, she also knows how to handle me.
“Well, since you're here, you might as well stay for dinner.” Her lips spread into a soft grin and she motions toward the small, tidy table set against a wide patio door overlooking her garden. “I made enough stew for a small army.”
She moves to the stove where a pot bubbles invitingly and the warm aroma of a home-cooked meal fills the room as she stirs it.
"I should head back," I start, but Bernice's eyes narrow, her wrinkled hands settling on her hips in that familiar stance that brooks no argument.
"You can eat, or I'll tie you to the chair and spoon-feed you myself."
A heavy breath escapes me, my shoulders slumping in defeat. Some battles aren't worth fighting.
"Fine. One plate."
Soon enough, bowls of mushroom stew and fresh rosemary bread appear on the worn kitchen table, its surface marked with decades of family meals and late-night conversations. Real hand-churned butter, a luxury I never bother with, sits in a small ceramic dish between us. The rich aroma of wild mushrooms and herbs fills my nose, bringing back memories of fall harvests and Gran's patient lessons about which fungi were safe to eat. We eat in comfortable silence, broken only bythe soft clink of spoons against pottery and the occasional pop from the woodstove.
After dinner, I wash the dishes while Bernice makes tea, the familiar routine settling something restless in my chest. My large hands dwarf the delicate plates she's had since I was small, and I handle them with the same care I learned as a clumsy teenager. Steam rises from the sink, carrying the scent of her homemade lavender soap. When the last pot is dried and put away, Bernice guides me to the living room, her small green hand warm against my arm.
I sink into one of her overstuffed armchairs, feeling like a bear crammed into a dollhouse. My elbows rest on my knees as Bernice settles into her favorite spot by the fire, a steaming mug of tea in her hands.
The silence stretches between us until Bernice hums softly, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks steadily, its brass pendulum catching firelight. Around us, shelves overflow with mysterious jars and dried herbs hanging in neat bundles, their shadows dancing on the walls like ancient pictographs.
“How are things going at the lodge?” she asks softly, taking a sip of her herbal tea. “Did Cassidy like the bedroom set you brought her?”
My shoulders tense, the ancient chair creaking beneath me. A collection of cat figurines watches me from the mantelpiece, their painted eyes knowing.
"She's a hard worker. Always up before I get there." I scowl at my tea, watching the leaves swirl at the bottom. “She painted that kitchen in record time. Got more paint on herself than on the walls at first, but she figured it out. Still got a lot to fix in that old place, though, but I made sure she has a comfortable apartment at least. She was gratefulfor the bedroom set, even tried to pay me for it. I refused, of course and said you were happy to get the space back.”
Bernice hums noncommittally, swirling her tea. The firelight cast a soft shadow on her weathered face and I get a glimpse of the woman she once was. A beautiful orc female, proud and fierce. She still is, underneath the weight of all those years. She is the rock that held my life in place at a time where I felt like I was crashing down at the bottom of a cliff.
"You're going to work there with her all winter, aren't you?"
"Someone's gotta." Heat rises to my neck, and I focus on the braided rug beneath my feet, its worn patterns telling stories of countless footsteps. "Bogdan would've bled her dry if I hadn't stepped in. She didn't have a damn clue what she was walking into with that place."
“And that’s your reason for going there day after day? To teach her how to paint a wall?”
My fingers tap against my mug, creating ripples in the dark liquid. I know what Bernice is saying and there’s no denying she’s got something there. There’s a part of me that knows I wouldn’t be able to stay away from Cassidy Perkins even if I tried. Not anymore.
But knowing it and saying it out loud are two very different things.
“There's this cat hanging around her place.” I switch the subject to something safer. Something that doesn’t make my skin crawl and my hands twitch. “Skin and bones, half-starved to death but too spooked to come close. She wants to coax it inside before winter, but so far, she hasn’t even managed to touch it.”
Bernice scoffs, her brows lifting in an offended expression that’s almost convincing. Almost. But I know her too well. My grandmother has a soft spot for strays of all kinds.
“You’re telling me that you came all the way here to solve Cassidy’s stray cat problem?” Bernice’s free hand runs along the spine of her old tabby cat, who purrs in contentment in her lap. “That’s seems rather outside the scope of your contractor’s duty.”
"I'm not trying to solve her problem." The words sound weak even to my ears, echoing off the walls lined with faded photographs and pressed flowers in gilt frames. "Ugh, who am I kidding? There's no way you'll believe me."
"You barely knew this girl a couple weeks ago, but now you're checking on stray cats for her?" Bernice sets down her tea with a gentle clink. "What's really going on here, Gerralt?"
I surge to my feet, pacing between the chair and fireplace. Spooked, the old tabby jumps down from Bernice’s lap and walks away, but not before giving me a glare. My shadow looms large against the wall, a dark giant among the dancing flames. The heat from the fire dances across my skin, but it's not the source of my discomfort.
“It’s just that she needs someone to look out for her.” My tone is defensive, even to myself. “She's too kind, too trusting. She needs my help.”
"Kind and trusting, is she?" Bernice clucks her tongue, the sound mixing with the pop and crackle of burning wood. "Sounds like she got under your skin. That's how it starts, you know."
