Page 4 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten all about me, Gerralt.”
“I could never forget about you, Evelyn,” I say, setting the console down in front of the counter with more force than I intended. “I’ve been busy. You know me.”
“Busy,” she repeats, hopping down from the stool with a grace that seems unfair for someone her age. She barely comes up to my waist, but her gaze meets mine without hesitation. “You’re always busy.”
Evelyn Primrose steps forward to examine the console, her fingers trailing over the polished edges with the kind of care I can’t help but notice. She’s always admired my work. She tilts her head to run her hand over the elegant curve of the leg, its foot carved in swirling vine.
“As flawless as ever,” she murmurs, turning her head this way and that. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”
“It's just a console,” I mutter, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I glance at the shelves nearest to me. Row after row of tiny glass figurines shaped like birds and flowers and stars. They look so fragile I half worry I’ll break one by accident just by existing nearby.
Evelyn turns to me, arching a silver brow. She tsks at me like an old schoolteacher.
“It's not ‘just’ anything, and you know it.” She turns her back on the console and folds her arms across her chest. Her wings flick, a sure sign of annoyance in pixies. “Do you have any idea how many people have been in here asking about your work? One woman from New York City even wanted to know if you take commissions. She says that orc-made furniture goes for quadruple the price in the city.”
“I don’t take commissions and I don’t go to the city.”
“Of course you don’t,” she says with a sigh. “That would require you to talk to people. Heaven forbid.”
I don’t respond. I know she’s trying to bait me into some kind of argument, but I’m not biting. Instead, I let my gaze drift across the shop again, taking in the controlled chaos the pixie seems to thrive on. There’s a wall of mirrors that catches my attention, round ones, square ones, big ones, small ones, all with frames more ornate than anything I’d ever bother with. One of them glows faintly around the edges, like it’s enchanted. It probably is, considering a whole coven of witches just moved into town this summer.
“You know,” Evelyn Primrose says, breaking the silence, “you really should consider expanding your horizons a bit. You’ve got a gift, Gerralt, whether you want to admit it or not. And gifts like yours shouldn’t be hidden away in that cave you call a workshop.”
I grunt noncommittally, my gaze flicking back to her. She’s still watching me, one wing twitching slightly, like she’s waiting for me to say something clever. Or anything, really.
“I’m fine as I am,” I say finally. It's not the first time I have the same conversation with the owner of the only store in town who carries my custom furniture. The only shop who carries my custom furniture, period.
“Fine,” she echoes, her tone dry as a bone. “Sure you are. Just you and your grandfather's tools, rattling around in that big empty house. Thriving.”
I feel my jaw tighten again, the muscles working beneath my skin.
“I do fine,” I say, a little more firmly this time. “I love my work and I don’t need more of it.”
For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the clock ticking on the wall behind her. Then she sighs and picks up another trinket, turning it over in her hands.
“Your grandmother worries about you, you know,” she says, her voice even and flat, her face carefully neutral.
“Bernice worries about everyone,” I reply, and despite myself, my lips twitch at the edges. It’s no one’s secret that Evelyn Primrose and my grandmother have been best friends since middle school. “She probably tells you all about it.”
“Oh, she does,” Evelyn Primrose says with a grin, her violet eyes twinkling. “Gossip is practically a sport at our age. She’s the one who told me about the new owner of the Saltwater Lodge. Bought it right out from under Bogdan Ashvale’s nose at auction, if you can believe it. That orc all but had a conniption, stomping around the county office like a storm cloud after losing out. Serves him right, though, if you ask me. After everything he put poor Mrs. Bennings through.”
Evelyn takes a dramatic pause and runs her finger over a tiny rabbit figurine.
“Word is, the new owner’s some investor from the big city.” Her wings flutter as she leans closer, lowering her voice like she’s letting me in on a juicy secret. “They’re planning a full renovation. Could be just the sort of opportunity someone like you ought to look into. They’ll be sure to hire a talent like yours.”
“Not interested,” I say, keeping my tone flat as I reach for the envelope she slides across the counter. I flip it open, thumbing through the bills inside.
“That’s more than usual,” I say, frowning.
“This is exactly what I've been trying to tell you,” she replies, waving a hand as if to dismiss the subject entirely. “That lovely cherry wood buffet sold last weekend, and those stone inlay end tables went yesterday. I’m afraid I can’t take any more of your furniture until spring, though. Tourists are thinning out, and I need to make room for smaller pieces.”
I nod, tucking the envelope back into my jacket. “Understood.”
Evelyn studies me for a moment longer, her sharp eyes softening just slightly.
“You know,” she says, her voice light again, “you don’t always have to wait for a reason to stop by. It wouldn’t kill you to visit once in a while. Maybe even stay for tea.”
The thought makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. I’m not a social butterfly, to say the least. I like people just like I like gossip. From far away. I glance at the window again, where a young elf couple is walking past, their hands intertwined. They’re laughing about something, the sound muffled by the glass. Nope. I definitively don’t need to spend more time in town.
