Page 52 of The Orc That Got Away

“This is the best surprise I’ve had all week,” I tell him after we’ve placed our orders. “Thank you for coming to the office.”

“Like I said, it was the best way I could think of to see you during daylight hours,” Bradford says.

“I know, and I’m sorry about the hours. And not coming home last night.”

“Yeah, where were you?”

“The office,” I say. “I got a few hours sleep on the couch but otherwise I was working all night.”

“Ragnar, this isn’t healthy,” Bradford says.

I think about what Gorlag said last night, and nod. “I know. And I know that you are telling me that for my own benefit, as much as for our relationship. I’ll try and get better about my hours.”

“I appreciate that,” Bradford says. He smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

I put my hand on top of his. He doesn’t pull away, but he also doesn’t really respond. “I’ll make this up to you, I promise,” I say softly.

Bradford meets my gaze. “I hope so, Ragnar. I really do.”

27

BRADFORD

I’m sitting on the couch, trying to distract myself with a rather dull history book, when I hear the door open. My eyes flash to the digital clock on the entertainment center. It’s three hours earlier than when he said he’d be home. Of course, to be fair, this is also when normal working people tend to get home. My heart begins to race, assuming someone has managed to break in, when I hear something equally relieving and stressful.

“Bradford?” Ragnar asks. So the orc just came home from work early. I sigh and set the book down, crossing my arms and refusing to get up from my comfy blanket cocoon. I wanted more time to think, to process my feelings and what it is I’m hoping to get out of this.

What I really want is to time travel back to Green Haven. When Ragnar was sweet, and kind, and not this strange, angry, pompous asshole he’s become. Maybe he was always this way, and I just didn’t want to see it?

“I’m in here,” I call back. I’ve just been here. All day. Alone, and wondering if solitude is better than being aroundyouright now. I despise feeling this way. But he’s been putting me into such a sour mood since we got here.

Ragnar walks into the room and holds out a large bouquet of flowers. This isn’t some last minute grocery store checkout lane bouquet, it looks like he actually went to a florist for this. It’s full of roses, hydrangeas, and lilies. Good thing he doesn’t have a cat.

I accept it, reluctantly. I’m used to large gifts and extravagant acts of passion. They are, at the center, meaningless without words and action to back them up. Ragnar smirks down at me, as if the bouquet alone is enough to make me jump into his arms like some desperate waif.

“Get up,” he commands. I almost gasp in shock at the forcefulness on display. “Come on, get dressed. Put on something nice. I’m taking you out to dinner.”

I stare down at the flowers. What is he trying to push here? Does he think showering me with extravagance will make me forget how cold he’s become? How hard? Maybe I want to stay right here, on the couch, in my sweatpants and eat crackers for dinner. But then I remember, quickly, that it’s his couch I’m lounging on. His crackers I’d be snacking on in a fit of emotional eating. Either way, I’m taking what he’s giving. May as well shoot high.

“Fine,” I say, dropping the flowers onto the couch and making my way to the guest room where my clothing is stashed.

I close the door and take a deep breath. Maybe he needs the space away from work. Maybe things are just a little rough right now, and he’ll come back around.

With these optimistic thoughts in mind, I change out of my sweats and into something presentable. I take my time with my hair, not wanting to go out into public with it like this. Maybe messy buns are in vogue, but notthismessy.

“Alright,” I say with a sigh, letting my arms drop against my side. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Ragnar looks me up and down with a strange sort of possessive desire. Is it any different than how he looked at me in Green Haven? I’m having a hard time remembering now. Maybe I’m the one who needs one or two glasses of wine to clear my head.

We end up outside the large iron doors of La Mer Bleu. I’ve heard of this place, one of my modeling buddies did a shoot for them when they first opened. He called it pretentious as all hell.

This does not bode well.

We’re shuffled into a secluded, dark corner that’s supposedly the chef’s table. I’m already feeling the disappointment, and the waiter hasn’t even asked if I want sparkling or still yet.

“May I start you off with a cocktail, perhaps a wine to get you started for the evening?” she asks, looking at me. But Ragnar interjects.

“We’ll share a bottle of the Montrachet Grand Cru, thank you,” he says before waving her away.

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