Page 2 of Charming the Orc's Mate

I did remember. The summer everything fell apart, this store had been my sanctuary. Every spine in its place, every section in perfect alphabetical order. Control in miniature while my world spun apart. Now here I was again, trying to impose order on another mess I hadn’t created but somehow inherited.

I dove behind the counter, grateful for the excuse to escape Beverly’s knowing glances and wishing some of the stress-fixing had stuck after all these years. Where the hell would Mags have kept order forms?

“The romance section was your favorite,” Beverly mused while I searched. “Though you tried to hide it behind those big history books.”

My cheeks heated. “I was eleven.”

I unearthed a stack of papers that looked promising. Invoices were mixed with order forms, sticky notes, and what appeared to be... cocktail recipes?

“Mmhmm. And now here you are, all grown up and taking over the family business. Mags would be so pleased.”

I wasn’t so sure about that sentimentality. The eccentric aunt I remembered had been locally sourced this and organic that. None of the vendor names on past due notices sounded familiar, and all the addresses pointed to big cities with friendly tax schemes.

I shuffled through until I found a half-completed form with “Beverly’s Book Bitches” scrawled across the top. My eyes widened as I took in the detailed middle finger sketched at the bottom of the page.

Helpfully signed by the second resignee, three whole weeks ago.

“I’m not—” I shoved the order form into my blazer pocket before Beverly could spot the artwork. “I’m so sorry, but it seems there may have been some confusion with your order.”

“Not to worry, dear.” Beverly’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “I heard you were quite the successful businesswoman in Seattle. Surely managing a little bookstore isn’t beyond your capabilities? Why, Mags used to say the place practically ran itself.”

My jaw clenched. The place ran itself right into the ground was more like it.

“I’ll make some calls today and expedite a new order.”

“Wonderful! I’ll let everyone know the book club is still on for Friday.” She gathered her cardigan around her and rose with regal grace. “And Carrie dear? You might want to stock up on the Chardonnay—last time we discussed romance novels, things got rather... spirited.”

The bell chimed her exit before I could correct her. Again.

I slumped against the counter, my head throbbing. This was supposed to be a quick in-and-out. Settle the estate, maybe take a few weeks to get the place in order before selling. Not... whatever the hell this was turning into.

My gaze landed on the stack of invoices, and my blood pressure shot higher. With a deepening sense of dread, I gathered them and stalked up the stairs to the door of Mag’s office. One hard—and necessary—shove with my shoulder, and I stumbled inside.

Stale air tickled my nose as I hit the lights. A half-empty mug sat precariously close to the edge of the desk, its contents long past the best use date. Papers covered every surface like confetti after a tornado. Boxes stacked three deep against the walls bore cryptic labels in Mags’s spidery handwriting—”Maybe Important 2019” and “Definitely Important 20?—”

I dropped into the ancient desk chair, wincing at its protesting squeal. I’d thought the register drawer and counter were in a state. The real horrorshow lived in here.

“Past due... Final Notice... Payment Required Immediately...” Red ink everywhere. I shuffled through them faster, my heart rate climbing with each new total. The numbers danced before my eyes in an ever-growing parade of zeros.

The vendor list read like a who’s who of publishing houses and distributors. All with hefty minimum orders. All demanding payment. And the wine suppliers... Gods and devils. The alcohol license alone would cost a fortune to maintain.

My hand shook as I punched numbers into my phone’s calculator. The total made my vision swim.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The word became a mantra as I dug deeper. Tax forms from three years ago sat unfiled. A stack of bank statements showed a pattern of bounced checks that made my risk analyst brain scream. Credit card statements...

I couldn’t even look at those yet.

The leather chair creaked as I leaned back. The estate lawyer had made it sound so simple—just a quaint little bookstore to liquidate. A few weeks to find a buyer, tops. But this? This was financial quicksand.

My fingers drummed against the desk. Maybe I could negotiate with the creditors. Buy some time to get the place in order before listing it. The property alone was worth a decent chunk given Silvermist’s tourism boom. But who’d want to buy a business drowning in debt?

“For fuck’s sake, Mags.” I pressed my palms against my eyes until spots danced behind my lids. “What were you thinking?”

The door chime echoed from downstairs.

About fucking time. I grabbed another stack of papers to confront my wayward employee, knocking the ancient coffee mug in the process.

“Shit!” I lunged for the papers, yanking them away from the dark stain spreading like an oil slick. Most were ruined anyway—ancient receipts and sticky notes covered in coffee rings. A bright yellow flyer caught my eye as I shuffled through the rescued stack.

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