Page 2 of Romancing the Orc

“But he’s… he’s… ludicrous!” My hands fly up. “He stays in that getup twenty-four-seven. There are pictures online of him grocery shopping in costume. He tells people he really is an orc!”

“Which is exactly why monster romance girlies love him.” Sherrie offers me a wicked grin. “They all want to fuck him, or they want to fuck him as Grinthar. Same thing.”

I groan. Grinthar is the main male character of my most popular series. Sherrie’s right—readers go absolutely feral for the huge orc, and if I’m being honest, part of the success of this new series has to be because Brokk’s on all the covers.

Because it’s not just my readers who envision him as one of my orcs. It’s me. I’m the thirsty little monsterfudger dreaming of what it would be like to be railed by a massive orc, and Brokk…

Brokk’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen and the closest I’ll ever come to a real orc.

The publisher sent me to one of the photo shoots back when Brokk first got cast as my cover model. I hovered in the back of the studio, in the dark behind all the bright lights shining on him. He’d glowed, looking fit and huge and powerful, his wide shoulders stretching the seams of his clothes.

Then he took off his shirt, because Brokkalwaystakes off his shirt. His chest was a work of art formed by the finest sculptor, the lines of his muscles so precise I almost wondered if he used a darker green makeup on them.

I immediately transformed from a competent author and wordsmith into a tongue-tied mess, too googly-eyed to use higher brain function. When they finally shut off all the special lights at the end of the photo shoot, I bolted before I could embarrass myself.

“We made the announcement on social media this morning,” Sherrie says, snapping me back to the here and now. “The readers will be really disappointed if he’s not there, but if you can’t do it…”

I meet Sherrie’s eyes in the mirror as she trails off. My friend isn’t saying it, but I can tell she thinks it would be a mistake to cancel.

I’m a big girl. I can be on the same stage with him without making a fool of myself. I so totally and absolutely can.

Right?

“He’ll keep his shirt on?” I ask. Because I sure as shit need him to keep his shirt on so I can form complete sentences.

She grins, knowing I just gave in. “I’ll talk to him personally.”

“Fine.” I start making a mental list of things I willnotdo while on stage with Brokk:

1) I will not start daydreaming that he’s actually an orc.

2) I will not ogle him, even if he takes off his shirt.

3) I will not make a fool of myself in front of thousands of people.

That last one’s a bit of a catchall, since I don’t have time to make a proper list. Lists. I don’t love them—Ineedthem. They’re the only way I can keep on track when my mind wants to wander into absentminded writing mode.

Alex sets down their makeup brush, having transformed my face into a glamorous version of myself I almost don’t recognize. They reach for my hair. “Now, what do you want to do with this?”

“I thought we’d blow it out into gentle waves,” Sherrie says.

“No, put it in a ponytail.” There’s no way I can compete with Brokk’s shampoo-commercial hair, so I’m not even going to try. And if I only get to have one little piece of myself up there on stage, it can be my hair. Ponytails are my thing.

“I know just the one that will go perfectly with the catsuit.” Alex makes a chef’s kiss and flings their fingers wide. Then they work their magic, and by the time they’re done, they’re right. They turn my plain brown hair into a polished ponytail that looks fierce and flirty.

“Alex, you’ve worked magic,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Right on time, too.” Sherrie waggles her phone to show the time on the screen. “You’re on stage in five.”

Oh, god. I love writing monster romance, but the thought of going on stage in front of thousands of readers makes my stomach sink. I glance at the glamorous, made-over version of myself in the mirror. It’s not me doing this—it’s her, and she looks sparkly and pink and awesome.

I stand and yank the sequined monstrosity away from my crotch.

“Are you done doing that?” Sherrie asks, amusement filling her voice. “Get it out of your system now, because youcannotdo that on stage.”

I shoot her a mock glare that only makes her grin harder and give the front of the catsuit one more good tug. Then I march for the door, my pink heels clicking on the polished concrete floor.

It’s a short walk down an industrial-looking hall to reach the backstage area. Sherrie strides along beside me, tapping away at her phone, much more confident in her heels than I am. “You remember your talking points, right?”

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