Page 15 of Orc Me, Maybe

Renault steps in, as dramatic as a curtain call.

“Julie, darling, I simply must know—have you arranged for a shaded seating area? I’m not about to subject myself to woodland UV exposure.”

Julie doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re at table C. Left side, under the birch tree, with a parasolanda misting charm.”

He blinks. “You misted my chair?”

“Just the chair,” she says innocently. “You’ll have to bring your own ego cooler.”

Renault gives a tight smile. “Delightful.”

Once he’s gone, Julie turns to me with a sigh. “He keeps calling me ‘darling.’ If he does it one more time, I might become a criminal.”

I take a step closer. “He calls you that because he knows you’re the only one here with an actual grip on the project. Fae folk love buttering people up before they strike.”

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind.” She turns to me and raises a brow. “And you?”

I shrug. “I don’t call you that because I think you’d throw me into the compost bin.”

Julie laughs—real, full. “That’s fair.”

There’s another pause. She tugs at her shirt collar. The tent’s stuffy. Or maybe it’s just the proximity.

“You’re good at this,” I say finally.

Her voice softens. “I want it to work. Not just for the paycheck. For the kids. For what it means.”

I nod, and for some reason, I want to touch her. Just her hand. Her wrist. Something to ground me. I don’t. I just hold her gaze a second longer than necessary.

“Are you planning to take over the whole camp?” I ask.

“Depends,” she says. “You gonna stop me?”

I shake my head slowly. “I’m starting to think I’d rather watch.”

She blinks. Her mouth opens. Then closes again.

I turn to the table. “Now hand me the layout. We’ve got fifteen minutes before the first investor lands.”

“Right.” Her voice wavers slightly. “Fifteen. I can do fifteen.”

“Of course you can,” I murmur.

And as I watch her move, papers rustling, boots scuffing across the wooden floor, I realize something I hadn’t before.

Julie Wren isn’t just keeping this camp running.

She’s starting to run circles aroundme.

And I’m not sure I mind one damn bit.

CHAPTER 7

JULIE

The meeting starts with a chair that wobbles and a clipboard that sticks to my thigh.

We’re crammed into the half-finished main hall—some kind of future multi-use space that currently smells like pine and freshly dried paint. The board members are seated around a makeshift table cobbled together from two saw-horses and what I’m pretty sure is part of the kitchen countertop. Groth is perched on a flipped-over crate, chewing the stub of a pencil. Renault has his legs crossed like we’re at a tea salon. Dena’s floating. Literally. Hovering a few inches off the floor, wings twitching in irritation every time Groth drops sawdust on her shoes.

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