Page 9 of Charming the Orc's Mate

“You know,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m pretty sure the purple paint will still work even if it’s not next to the other cool tones.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t quite suppress my smile. “Mock all you want, but there’s a method to my madness.”

His voice dropped lower, sending a shiver down my spine. “Oh, I don’t doubt your capabilities.”

Heat bloomed in my cheeks. I busied myself with arranging brushes, praying he couldn’t see how flustered I was. “You seem to know your way around art supplies.”

“Occupational hazard.” He shrugged, the movement drawing attention to the play of muscles beneath his shirt. “Clan carver. Wood mostly, as the name would suggest, but I’ve been known to dabble.”

“Really?” I paused sorting the box of smocks Molly had unearthed from some magical dimension. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, I was supposed to apprentice with a master in Vancouver, but...” He trailed off, then shook his head to clear his wistful smile. “Anyway. These days I mostly do whatever orders come through the clan’s weekend stall at Mist and Market.”

His casual tone masked the vulnerability in his eyes, but I caught it. He’d mentioned his father, but this was something else. Some dream derailed, a different future lost along the way. Maybe there was more to the orc I remembered than the easygoing surface he hid behind.

“Must be nice,” I said softly. “Having a creative outlet.”

Torain set down the last easel and studied me. “You don’t have one?”

“Unless you count baking those snickerdoodles you loved so much sometime between the hours of midnight and morning.” I forced a laugh. “Risk assessment doesn’t leave much room for artistic expression.”

“Sounds lonely.”

The gentleness in his voice scraped against my raw edges. I turned away, fussing with paint bottles that were already perfectly arranged. “It paid well.”

“Past tense?”

Saved by the bell—literally. The first guests arrived in a cheerful cluster, and I slipped into professional hostess mode. Name tags. Seating assignments. Carefully portioned wine in our dwindling supply of real glasses.

For exactly forty-seven minutes, everything ran smoothly. The local artist led everyone through basic brush techniques. Conversation and laughter flowed. Even Beverly seemed pleased, though she kept commenting on how ‘different’ things were.

Then Molly appeared at my elbow.

“We’re out of wine.” Molly’s whisper carried panic. “Like, completely out. And we’ve got two hours left.”

“Please be joking,” I hissed. “What about the bottles downstairs?”

“Gone. These ladies can drink.” She gestured to where Beverly’s inner circle had colonized an entire corner. “And Mrs. Peterson keeps ‘accidentally’ knocking over her glass and asking if Torain can clean it up.”

The grumbling started low but spread quickly. Beverly’s corner grew particularly animated, their stern looks in my direction carrying judgment I didn’t need translated. I’d seen that same expression in boardrooms across Seattle—the moment when someone realized you weren’t living up to expectations.

My heart rate spiked as I realized Torain had vanished.

One moment he was there, effortlessly charming the older ladies with compliments on their brush strokes. The next... gone.

“Start collecting empty glasses,” I ordered Molly. “I’ll figure something out.”

My nails bit into my palms. I would not let this place defeat me. I’d managed million-dollar accounts and navigatedcorporate takeovers. One small-town art event would not break me.

Just as I was considering the merits of serving paint thinner and hoping no one noticed, the bell chimed again. Torain shouldered his way through the door, arms laden with bottles.

“Special delivery from One Hop Stop.” He set them on the bar with a wink. “Vanin sends his regards. And hopes you’ll consider rebuilding some burned bridges.”

I could have kissed him. I settled for helping pour refills as quickly as possible, earning relieved sighs from the participants.

“Oh, Vanin’s house red!” Beverly practically floated over. “I do hope you’ll be serving this regularly again, dear. That dreadful imported stuff Mags insisted on was giving me terrible headaches.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

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