Page 14 of Romancing the Orc

He lifts an eyebrow. “So, were you going to get off me?”

Shit, I’m still on top of him! There’s that blush again. I roll off, squirming with embarrassment, and struggle to my feet.

He leaps up beside me and does a slow spin, coming to a halt and pointing. “That way.”

“What’s that way?”

“I have no idea. But it’s directly away from the camp, and that’s good enough for now.”

“You can tell where the camp is?” The fall got me completely twisted around.

“Yes.” He shoots me a questioning look.

“I’m not good with directions.” I shrug. “I grew up in a small town in the middle of a forest, so you’d think I’d pick up something. But I never did.”

“Your heroines always know where they’re going.”

I startle. “You’ve read my books?”

“I like knowing what I’m putting my face on.”

Oh. That makes sense. Still, a niggle of disappointment goes through me. I’d kind of hoped…

His finger lifts my chin until I meet his eyes. “I love your books.”

A soft whoosh of air leaves me. Brokk’s sincerity brings a soft smile to my lips. Like any author, I want people to like my books, but knowinghelikes them makes warmth curl through my chest.

More shouts call out, Elton’s voice rising above the others. I can’t make out words, but the tone sounds a bit manic. Guess his day isn’t going like he expected. Join the club, asshole.

“Come on.” Brokk grips my arm and pulls me forward.

I take one step in the heels and wobble.

He jerks to a halt, glaring down at the shoes as if they’ve offended him. “You can’t walk in those.” He crouches, a foot-long knife appearing in one hand while the other reaches for my foot.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to cut off the heels.”

“Wait! No!” I gape down at him, horrified.

How to explain? Years of barely making rent still haunt me. This convention, this makeover—they’ve all been my first real taste of success. The designer shoes and catsuit mean more than money—though, god, they’re still ashit tonof money—they’re symbols that I can actually make it as an author after years of hearing that I needed to give up on my dream.

I don’t know how to admit that, so I focus on the money. “These heels cost more than the first book I published ever made.”

He grunts and reaches for large palm leaves and several vines. Brokk lifts my leg, slides the Christian Loubouton stiletto off, and sets my foot on a stack of leaves. That strange feeling of electricity tingles through the air again. I can’t quite see how he does it, but he turns the layers of palm leaf into a little bootie, held to my ankle by vines. He repeats the process with my otherfoot, shoves my discarded heels into pockets on his cargo pants, and stands.

“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask.

“Pixies and sprites make leaf clothing all the time, so I knew it was possible.” It’s his turn to shrug. “I’ve simply never had large enough leaves to work with before.”

I wiggle my toes. Instead of being loose bags flapping around, he somehow got the palm fronds to mold to my feet. That should be impossible, right?

“You don’t need to keep doing that. You don’t have to keep talking as if you’re from Faerie, like a character in one of my books.” I wave a hand, taking in the heavy jungle all around us. “None of your fans are going to pop out from behind a tree with a phone and catch you if you drop the act.”

“I will tell you something now. You can choose to believe me or not, but know this.” He steps close, his dark eyes boring into mine. “I do not lie to you. I willneverlie to you, Lara.”

He says my name like a kiss, his tongue gliding over the syllables with care.

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