Page 9 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
"I'm not interested."
Then he turns his back to me and begins methodically picking up the scattered wood samples, arranging them with precise, carefulmovements as if I'm not even there. I could pretend I don’t see how hard and round his ass looks in his cargo pants, but I’d be lying.
Still, he's ignoring me as easily as swatting a fly away. The rejection stings, but something else, pride, maybe, or sheer stubbornness, makes me step forward. The new Cassidy doesn’t quit that easily.
"If you could just take a look at the place," I press, moving closer despite my better judgment. "I know it's a big project, but I’m sure I could convince you…"
He doesn't even look up from his task as he spreads what looks like sawdust from a bin over the spilled wood stain.
"Look, Princess, I don't work for city folk who have no idea what kind of work an old place like that actually needs. Do yourself a favor and pack up, then go back to where you belong."
The words hit like a slap. For a brief eerie moment, I’m reminded of all these times Jason used to dismiss me. That same condescending tone, that same way of looking right through me instead of at me, like my dreams were somehow beneath his notice. Heat rises in my cheeks, but this time it's from anger, not embarrassment. Five years of shrinking myself for my ex-husband's ego flash through my mind, and something inside me snaps.
No more. I'm done being small for the sake of others.
I draw myself up to my full height. Which, okay, still barely reaches his shoulder, and let my voice crack like a whip.
"You don't know the first thing about me or where I belong." My voice is clear and proud and it makes me proud just to hear it.
The orc turns toward me, lording over me with his orcish good looks and impressive size. It should intimidate me, but it only makes me bolder. The old me would have left without a sound, her tailtucked between her legs. But the new Cassidy? She doesn't let people walk all over her, not even men like Gerralt Banesman.
"Evelyn was right about your craftsmanship, but wrong about one thing." I flip my hair, ignoring the fact that a stray strand is plastered to my cheek with wet stain. "She said you were a gentleman. She was obviously wrong on that point. Also, don’t call me Princess."
For a moment, we're standing close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his amber eyes, feel the heat radiating from his body. Something electric crackles in the air between us.
Then I spin on my heel and march toward the door, trying to salvage what's left of my dignity. Naturally, my heel slips on one of the fallen wood pieces, sending me into an ungraceful stumble, but I manage to right myself without falling face-first into the sawdust.
Again. Thank God for small mercies.
The crisp autumn air hits my face as I step outside, my heels crunching angrily against the gravel path to my car.
"Real professional," I mutter as I fumble for my car keys. My hands are shaking, and I have to fight back the burning sensation of tears in my eyes.
How dare he be so gorgeous and so incredibly rude at the same time? It's just not fair.
The afternoon sun slants through the trees as I slide behind the wheel, casting long shadows across the workshop. Even angry, I can't help admiring the beautiful craftsmanship one last time. What a waste of talent, wrapped in such an infuriating package.
"Well, that's just great," I say to my reflection in the rearview mirror. My eyes are glossy with unshed tears, but I’m still proud that I stood up for myself. Well, kind of.
"Back to square one. And I've just ruined my favorite skirt."
As I drive away, watching the workshop disappear behind me, determination hardens in my chest. I'll find someone else, someone who will take me seriously. The new Cassidy doesn't need validation from anyone. Not even impossibly hot, grumpy orcs with hands that could probably span my entire waist and eyes that make my knees weak and… nope. Not going there.
What a jerk.
A devastatingly handsome jerk, but still a jerk.
Chapter Five
Gerralt
TheWanderingGnomeisas cramped as ever. I duck under the low wooden beam of the doorframe and step inside the cozy indoors as a gust of wind blows behind me. The space feels tighter during the offseason, with the large outdoor terrace closed off and all the tables pushed closer to each other in the central dining room. The warm air inside, laced with the smoky hint of spiced tea and the sugary richness of cinnamon pastries, rushes up to greet me.
"Morning, Gerralt!" Mathilda calls from behind the counter, her round face breaking into a dimpled smile. The gnomeproprietor barely reaches four feet tall, even with her hair piled high in its usual elaborate bun. Her black eyes sparkle with warmth as she reaches for the pad in the pocket of her apron, the pointed tips of her ears twitching as she returns to take the order from the table in front of her.
The usual morning crowd fills the mismatched tables. Mrs. Henderson, the kraken lady who owns the tackle shop, sits alone with her romance novel. The O'Malley troll twins argue over their shared plate of pancake and bacon. Old Mr. Pierce, the goblin who oversees the town’s parks maintenance, is bent over his crossword puzzle and doesn’t bother lifting his gaze when I walk past him.
That’s a man after my heart. Minding his own business.
