Page 3 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sil.”
There's a pause and I feel a shift in her attitude. We've been friends for so long, it's like we can feel each other's mood through the phone. Or something like that.
“Hey, I’m proud of you for this.” Her voice is steady and quiet. The voice of the friend who talked me over the ledge time and time again since that night I came home to find Jason in bed with a woman who was everything I never would be. “Really. You bought a whole freaking business to build a brand-new life. Most people just get bangs after a divorce or a boob job if they're really going for it. Not my girl!”
I laugh despite myself. “I thought about a boob job but figured this was cheaper.”
“You don't need to change a thing about yourself,” she says in a fierce tone that makes my throat clamp shut. “Cassie, listen. Don’t panic, okay? You’re the best interior designer I've ever seen. You turned other people’s houses into something that could be in magazines time and time again. You got this.”
If I didn't already adore her, I would now. She's not only my best friend, but she always knows what to say.
“Those didn’t have bats.”
She pauses and I hear the faint sound of liquid pouring into a cup.
“Do you actually have bats?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Not confirmed. Very possible.”
“Add it to the list,” Silvia says lightly. There’s a pause, then her voice softens. “For real, though. You’re scared, huh?”
She always knows. I swallow hard, trying to push the lump in my throat all the way down. “Yeah. A little.”
“Well, tough. You’re not allowed to quit.” Her words are sharp, but they make me feel all warm where it was starting to feel cold. “You’re gonna make this place amazing, and I can’t wait to drink free wine in your perfect garden this spring.”
Her faith in me feels like a life raft. I hold on to it like my life depends on it. “Thanks, Sil.”
“Always.”
When I finally hang up, the silence envelops me again. But this time, it’s a little lighter. I take one last look around the parlor, my gaze landing on the antique mirror leaning against the far wall. My reflection stares back, blurry and smeared by years of dust and spiderwebs, but there’s something in the tilt of my chin, something in my stance, that I can almost believe in.
“Alright,” I whisper to the lodge. And to myself.
I walk back out to my car and grab a broom and a large box of contractor-grade garbage bags. In less than five minutes, I’m working full steam ahead, letting the soft rhythm of it chase away the rest of my nerves. Each puff of dust feels like a small victory. One step at a time. One sweep at a time.
This place will shine again. So will I.
Chapter Two
Gerralt
TheairoutsideMrs.Primrose’s boutique is crisp enough to bite. It smells like damp leaves and the briny tang of the nearby ocean, nothing like the clean pine scent that surrounds my house. My breath puffs out in little clouds as I stand there, hoisting the long, intricately carved console over my shoulder. The polished walnut gleams under the weak morning sunlight, every curve and joint sanded to perfection. It's good, probably some of my best work.
I adjust my grip, the wood cool and solid under my fingers, then glance through the arched windows of PrimrosePristine Home Decor. The display inside is as extravagant as ever. A cascade of gilded lanterns hangs from the ceiling, casting shimmery light across a table draped in green velvet. There’s a vase stuffed with dried flowers, pale hydrangeas, and spiky thistles, and a scattering of tiny crystal pumpkins to finish it off.
It’s all so… much.
I catch a glimpse of silvery hair and the tips of frost-colored wings at the back of the store. It's still early. The Wandering Gnome diner isn't even open yet and Evelyn Primrose is already fluttering about in her little shop. The elderly pixie keeps hours that would burn off a moth.
Even an orc like me couldn’t dream of keeping up with that level of energy. It’s both annoying and oddly fascinating.
My jaw tightens as I push open the stained-glass door. The tinkling of the bell overhead grates against my nerves almost instantly.
Inside, the scent of lavender and cedarwood greets me, warm and persistent, like it’s trying to force some cheerfulness down my throat with a stick. The space is cluttered, every shelf bursting with baubles, every corner filled with something delicate and expensive-looking. I stand perfectly still for a moment, conscious of how my shoulders brush against the edge of a tall display behind me and how my boots seem to echo too loudly against the gleaming wood floor.
“Ah, there you are!” Mrs. Primrose’s voice rings out, bright and sharp, from behind a counter at the far end of the boutique. She’s perched on a dainty-looking step stool, arranging a set of porcelain teacups on a high shelf. Her wings catch the light, shimmering a pale lavender that matches her dress.
She turns to me, her angular, kitten-like features bunched up in a frown that doesn't reach her sparkling violet eyes. She motions forme to come forward and I walk slowly, carefully, holding the console above it all.
