Page 14 of Built Orc Tough
Just something suspended in the air between us. Something lighter.
Maybe even a little warm.
She nudges me with her elbow. “You’re paying for those pots, by the way.”
“Of course,” I murmur. “Wouldn’t want to upset the queen of precise pot placement.”
She smiles.
Not smirks.Smiles.
For just one moment, I stop thinking about how we started and start wondering where this is heading.
CHAPTER 7
IVY
The thing no one tells you about grudging camaraderie is that it sneaks up on you like mildew in a damp closet. One minute you're bristling with righteous fury over broken pots and passive-aggressive incense smoke, and the next you're elbow-deep in peonies beside the same person you once mentally referred to as “the sentient boulder.”
To be fair, Ididstart this morning with every intention of keeping things strictly professional. Festival prep. That’s it. A clean, polite exchange of ideas that in no way leads to emotional vulnerability or bonding over foliage.
So naturally, he shows up early.
I’m standing at the main counter, sorting ribbons by shade gradient and mentally preparing a lecture about floral palettes and the emotional resonance of color, when Gorran’s shadow cuts across the sun-drenched floor.
“You’re early,” I say, not looking up.
He grunts. “You said ten.”
“It’s nine forty-two.”
“Is that early or you being obsessive?”
I finally glance over. He’s holding a notebook. Anotebook. Brown leather cover, worn at the edges, a string looped around it like he doesn’t trust it to stay shut.
“I take notes,” he says, catching my expression.
“Not what I expected,” I mutter, moving behind the prep table. “Come on. We’re starting with color theory.”
He follows without protest, which feels like its own kind of miracle.
I spread a few cut blooms across the workbench: coral roses, pale eucalyptus, deep blue delphinium, and a few sun-drenched marigolds. “First thing you need to understand is balance. People don’t just want pretty flowers—they want something thatfeelsright. Color harmony tells a story. You can’t just toss together the loudest blooms and hope it sings.”
Gorran nods, gaze fixed on the flowers. “What story do these tell?”
I blink. “I mean, that’s not how I usually—okay. Um.” I gesture toward the arrangement. “Coral’s warmth. Comfort. Not as intimate as red, more inviting. Eucalyptus is soothing, but a little aloof. Delphinium—hope. Faith. And marigolds are…” I hesitate. “Well, marigolds are tricky. Cheerful, but tied to loss in a lot of traditions.”
He hums. “Sounds like a welcome home bouquet with unresolved baggage.”
I pause, stunned into silence. Then—dammit—I laugh. “Okay, I hate that that’s exactly right.”
He smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching.
I push another set of blooms toward him. “Your turn. Tell me what this says.”
He studies them—foxglove, dusty miller, snapdragon, a splash of baby’s breath.
“Foxglove’s protective. But dangerous. Dusty miller’s about remembrance, especially after grief. Snapdragons are defiance, maybe pride. Baby’s breath is innocence, but also space.”
