Page 5 of Charming the Orc's Mate

She hummed agreement. The silence stretched a beat too long before she shoved the last book into its home, then grabbed the nearest teetering stack to begin the task all over again.

Those hips wrapped a leash around my neck and yanked me behind. I fumbled for a change of topic. Something casual and comforting. Something to ease the tension I saw in the tight lines around her mouth. Something to draw out that smile I remembered from lazy summer days.

Osen would have known exactly what to say. My brother always knew the right words, the perfect balance between strength and diplomacy that made him a natural leader. Even his mate bond with Miranda had started rocky as hell, but they’d fought through dark magic and near-death to find their way.

Meanwhile, here I stood, my fated mate right in front of me, and I couldn’t string two thoughts together.

Carissa’s scent of cinnamon and vanilla filled my lungs with every breath, making it hard to focus on anything but the way she moved through the familiar space. Like she belonged here. Like she’d never left.

“So, taking over Mags’s legacy?” I grabbed a stack of paperbacks before she could stretch for them.

“Something like that.” She snatched the books and reshelved them with military precision. “Right now, I just need to get things in order.”

The vague answer stung, though it shouldn’t have surprised me. Osen said Miranda hadn’t felt the same immediate connection to him, either. But this was my mate. Did she not feel it, not even a little? The pull of fate drawing us together?

A strand of dark hair escaped her bun, curling against her neck. I tracked its fall, imagining how it would feel wrapped around my fingers. How she’d look with all that dark silk spilling free, wild and unbound.

“Well, if you need a break from organizing, you should come by One Hop Stop later,” I offered. “First round’s on me.”

“Vanin’s place?” Molly’s voice drifted down from the second floor. “Ooh, Vanin hasarms. Like, I know all orcs have arms, but his are just...” She made an unintelligible noise.

I filed away that interested tone for later teasing. “Osen just finished a special batch to celebrate his mate. Dark ale aged in cedar barrels to celebrate his mate. It’s got this hint of?—”

“Look, Torain.” Carissa whirled on me, then took a step back to meet my eyes easier. “It’s been nice to see you again, but I really don’t have time to chat or get a drink. I have an author reading in—” She checked her watch and paled. “Three hours. With no available staff, no setup, and apparently no—” Her voice cracked. “No actual plan beyond hopes and dreams.”

The scent of her stress hit me like a punch—sharp cinnamon tinged with burnt sugar. Just like those days she’d show up at the store with red eyes, clutching a plate of cookies she’d baked alongside Mags as a distraction from her parents’ messy divorce. Back then, all I could do was pretend not to notice and try to make her laugh.

But now...

“Let me help.” The words spilled out before I could even think them into existence. My mate was hurting. She shouldn’t smell of anxiety and overwhelm, and everything in me needed to fix it. “Moving furniture, setup, whatever you need. These arms are good for more than just carving.”

“That’s… kind of you.” Her gaze caught on my forearms before snapping away. “But I couldn’t impose.”

“Not an imposition.” I kept my voice gentle, fighting every instinct screaming at me to gather her close and soothe away the tension in her shoulders. “Consider it repayment for all those cookies you used to share.”

Her lips twitched. “You remember that?”

“Best snickerdoodles I’ve ever had.” I grinned. “I’ve only been nursing a craving for nearly two decades.”

The almost-smile won its battle, curving her lips for just a moment before she caught herself. My heart stumbled at the sight. Gods, but she was beautiful when she let those walls crack.

“I suppose I could part with my recipe as payment.” She crossed her arms, but the gesture lacked heat. “If you’re determined to help, we need to clear all the boxes from the wine bar, set up chairs, and figure out where Jana stashed the author’s books. Assuming we even have any.”

I’d barely shifted the first couch when the bell above the door dinged. I caught the scent before I turned—expensive cologne barely masking natural sleaze.

“Ah, you must be the new owner.” Tate’s smile didn’t reach his eyes as he approached Carissa. “I’ve been hoping to catch you. Tate Gerrard, Silvermist Development Group.”

My hands clenched as he extended one manicured palm. I knew that predatory asshole. I’d seen enough of Tate’s “urban renewal” projects—buying up local businesses, gutting their character, and flipping them for maximum profit.

Carissa’s shoulders tensed, but her handshake was pure corporate precision. “Carissa Morton. I’m afraid I’m rather busy at the moment, Mr. Gerrard.”

“Please, call me Tate. And this won’t take but a moment.” He produced a business card like a magic trick. “Let me start by offering my condolences. Margaret was a pillar of this community and had my utmost respect.”

Which was why he used her given name instead of the name everyone knew her as, surely. I bit back a growl of annoyance.

The slime passed an assessing look over the store, and Carissa stiffened further. “I imagine inheriting all this responsibility must feel like a monumental task laid upon you. I’d like to make an offer that would take that burden off your shoulders.”

“I appreciate your interest.” Carissa accepted his card with two fingers, like touching it might contaminate her. “However, as I said, I’m quite busy preparing for an event. Perhaps we could schedule a meeting for another time?”

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