Page 31 of Built Orc Tough
He blinks. “She flirts with everyone.”
“Did she used to flirt with you?”
Pause. “Yes.”
“Did you flirt back?”
Longer pause. “Not anymore.”
That catches me off guard. “What changed?”
He meets my gaze. Steady. “She’s not you.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
He shrugs. “And I like the way you tie your ribbons in a rage.”
I laugh. Sharp, startled. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
We stand there for a beat too long. The sun is setting, and the lanterns flicker on like stars pretending to be closer than they are.
I’m still pretending I don’t want to kiss him again. But I’m a terrible liar.
I don’t wait for him to say anything else. I grab the last crate—probably more forcefully than necessary—and march off toward the cart with all the grace of a startled goat.
The nerve. The absolute gall. “She’s not you,” he says, like that’s supposed to untangle the barbed wire currently choking my brain. As if my heart didn’t just lurch into a full gymnastics routine at that stupidly earnest look on his face.
I’m halfway across the square before I realize I’m muttering to myself. “Not you, not you, not you. Great. Wonderful. That’s not confusing at all.”
I chuck the crate onto the cart with an aggressive flourish and lean against the side, scowling at a basket of pears like they owe me an apology. Of course I’m the idiot who catches feelings for the emotionally guarded, ex-gladiator flower nerd. Of course I am.
Behind me, I hear his boots crunching on the gravel, but I don’t turn around. I can feel his eyes on me—sharp, steady, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that keeps moving the pieces.
I busy myself with the twine again. The twine never judges. The twine doesn’t flirt with dryads or say things that make my stomach do that ridiculous swoop.
Still, I can’t help it. I glance back.
He’s standing by the booth, arms crossed, one eyebrow slightly raised in that maddeningly calm way that says he’s not upset—just vaguely entertained.
“You always storm off after compliments?” he calls over.
I whirl on him. “That was not a compliment.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“It was a landmine wrapped in a backhanded bouquet!”
He blinks, slow. “That’s a lot of metaphor.”
“I’m a florist, Gorran. It’s my whole brand.”
He chuckles, low and lazy, and I hate how my pulse stumbles at the sound.
“Ivy,” he says, walking over with that frustratingly unhurried gait. “You know I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “And you meant that I’m...not her?”
