Page 1 of My Orc Billionaire
Chapter One
Riven
“Oooh,are any of these up for grabs?”
I hadn’t even realized Mom was in the kitchen until I saw her hand snaking in from my left side, reaching for one of the macarons I was carefully arranging on the platter. Without thinking, I smacked her hand to keep her away from them.
The noise she made was somewhere between a laugh and a huff. “Riven!” she scolded…but at least her hand disappeared.
“Sorry.” I didn’t look up from my task, frowning in concentration to ensure the sixth cookie was perfectly aligned with the first five. “The rejects are in the blue plastic container.” I used my butt to point across the kitchen. “You can have one of those.”
“A reject! Such an honor!” Mom teased, but I heard her cross to the other counter. “These still look amazing. Are they for the interview?”
I hummed in concentration, moved the maple pecan macaron a millimeter to the right, then nodded in satisfaction and blew out a breath as I straightened.
“Yeah, it’s not for a few hours, but I’ve been baking for ages.” I planted my hands in the small of my back and bent, groaning as I stretched. “Ugh, I’m getting old.”
My mother shoved a pink dessert into her mouth, but not before I saw her wince. And the pity in her eyes.
I wasn’told—not even thirty yet. This wassupposedto be the prime of my life…but no one told my genes that. Because of my family history, we all got regular screenings, and we caught the cancer early last year, thank God. But that kind of shit wasn’t easy on your body, you know?
At least you don’t have to worry about your boobs getting in the way anymore.
Well, there was that.
I’d never beenbig, but I was discovering there were benefits to having smaller tits—when they weren’t aching from the surgery—especially when I worked long hours on my feet.
“The maple pecan is the best,” Mom declared, already turning back to the reject container.
I snorted. “You haven’t tried the lavender lemon—they’re the best. And the sriracha-honey.”
I could see her nose wrinkle as she studied the offerings. “Is that this bright red one? I don’t know about that combination. What if he doesn’t like spicy foods?”
“Then he’ll love the chocolate buttercream, or the mini apple-bourbon pies.” I shrugged. “Something for everyone.”
“You make the best desserts, and he’ll love them,” Mom announced, popping the lid off one of the other containers. “Oooh, brownies! I’m going to miss you when you move away, lovebug.”
Since this was accompanied by her taking a big bite of one of the mini brownies, I knew exactly what she’d miss. Still, her vote of confidence—and obvious enjoyment of the desserts—made me smile.
Mom was convinced I would get the job which I’d made all these treats to interview for. It wasn’t the first time I’d gone in for an interview as a private chef, and I knew exactly how to highlight my skills. Since the application process had specifically mentioned a requirement for dessert at each meal, I figured the client had a sweet tooth, and I leaned into that.
The only issue? This was the first time I’d ever interviewed with zero idea of who the client actuallywas.
The internet was practically empty when it came toAbydos No Last Name.
Apparently he owned the Vengeance Mine in Colorado, and the Vengeance Lithium Refining Plant on this coast…and that was just about all anyone knew about him, other than speculations about his outrageous worth.
I knew he was an orc, obviously. My cousin Sami was married—and Mated—to his best friend Tarkhan. I knew he was one of the orcs who’d crossed through the veil a decade earlier from their world and were slowly coming to Eastshore Isle to make their homes. And I knew he was a huge recluse.
“Soooo…” Mom turned around with a happy sigh and planted her butt against the counter. She was wearing that ridiculous cat-in-a-witch’s-hat sweater, which told me she’d been volunteering at the library this morning. “How are you feeling?”
“In general?” I shrugged. “My back aches and my feet hurt.” And even though the doctors told me the scars would stop itching, I swear I could still feel them a year later. “And my bank account?—”
I pressed my lips together, not wanting to get into that old argument. My last clients—a wealthy couple up in New York—had found a reason to fire me when it became obvious my medical bills were going to be outrageous…and I’d refused to take money from Mom. Ididmove in with her during recovery, which I figured was basically me accepting her charity, but now I just tried not to mention money.
Or drowning in medical debt.
“I’m fine,” I said instead with a bright smile.
