Page 8 of Buck Wild Orc Cowboy
Max blinked at me before turning back to Sel. “Could I stay here instead? I like being near kitchens.” His voice wavered. “I won’t get in the way. Promise.”
Sel looked at him. At me. His chest lowered with a breath that sounded like resignation. “Alright.”
The word steadied me more than I wanted to admit.
While Max settled in a chair in the corner of the empty dining room, Sel led me through the swinging door on the left, into the kitchen. Stainless steel counters lined the walls with smooth countertops beneath. A row of stand mixers perched in the back left, waiting to be used. The scent of vanilla and flour hung in the air.
He pulled a clean apron over his head, a dusting of flour already clinging to his black shirt beneath, and handed me a second, which I donned. It was huge, made for an orc, but I tightened the ties a few times around my waist and secured them with a bow. His arms flexed as he tied the strings on his own, his thick muscles moving beneath the short sleeves. His cowboy boots squeaked on the polished tile. I sensed he was trying to come across as casual, but his pointed ears twitched at strange intervals. Cute. Completely misplaced on someone so massive.
His hand swept toward the island in the middle of the room. “This is where I prep dough.” His voice came out a little too loud. “Pastry bins are there.” He pointed. “Scales. Measuring cups.” He tugged out a big drawer with neatly organized cooking implements. “And you saw the big mixer. It’s got a thing for speed if the gear lever sticks. Just bang it—here.” Striding over to it, he smacked a spot on the side.
The mixer looked fairly new, but I guess it would be since he wouldn't have been on the surface for long. Although, he might've been able to find one used. Plenty of bakeries were going out of business lately.
As he showed me around, I nodded politely, not interrupting his explanation even though every word was for someone who’d never measured flour in her life. Maybe it was nerves. Or he might not know what else to say to me. I let him keep talking, though I was starting to ache from holding back my laughter. At least I didn’t feel offended.
He picked up a small offset spatula to demonstrate drizzling glaze technique and my amusement cracked. The tool looked ridiculous in his hand. It was like watching a grizzly frost cupcakes.
My smile escaped before I could pull it back. I washed my hands and dried them, then reached into the bin of prepped dough and pulled one out. I rolled it in flour and laid it on a board. “May I?”
His words paused mid-sentence. “Uh. Sure.”
Rolled once. Turned. Rolled again. My fingers found the rhythm. When I sliced the first fold and shaped it into a shell that would become a croissant, his eyes latched onto my hands and went still.
“You’ve done this before,” he said softly.
I didn’t look up. “A few times.”
Silence stretched until I glanced sideways. He wasn’t smiling, but warmth flickered in his eyes.
“I don’t let just anyone into this kitchen,” he said after a long pause. His voice dipped, softer but heavier. “But I see I can trust you.”
Trust. I kept my eyes on the dough, but the back of my neck felt hot. No one said things like that where I came from. You earned your keep. End of story.
A flush coated my skin as if he’d reached out and touched me. I shouldn’t let his simple compliment reach me. But the way he'd said it, like it mattered enough to speak out loud, sent a ripple through my belly I couldn’t ignore.
I focused on the dough, but I couldn’t help stealing another look. The way he watched me work, the quiet respect in his eyes… I didn’t know what to do with that.
The flour jar was large enough I had to stand on my tiptoes to scoop from it properly. The moment I did, the front of my borrowed apron sucked to my chest and left a puff of white across my shoulder. I didn’t care. I was in love with this place already.
Sel leaned against the counter nearby, silent, his arms crossed over his thick chest. His eyes stayed on my hands. I didn’t mind him watching. Actually, it made something curl inside me I didn't want to examine too closely.
After the croissants were resting on the sheet, I started working on a common coffee cake batter. I’d add the odd fruit I’d spied in a bowl nearby that couldn’t be blueberries despite their purple hue. No blueberry I’d met had green flecks on the skin.
I creamed shortening with sugar. Cracked eggs and added them to the mix. Stirred until the batter was smooth.
“The eggs look different,” I said as politely as I could. “They're much bigger.” Bigger than my fist, actually.
And green.
“Chumble eggs.”
“Chumbles must come from the orc kingdom.” He’d mentioned they were incorporating orc creatures in addition to orc dishes into the traditional Wild West life.
“They do. They're pink.” He held his hand out at waist-height, which, for me, was boob-height. “About this tall. Scales. Claws. Try to avoid them.”
“I certainly will.” And I'd warn Max. “You said pink, but the egg yolks are green.”
“They are.”
