Page 34 of Thankful for My Orc
“I’ll get reinforcements.” She makes a beeline for the counter, and I watch as she deploys her most charming smile on the barista—a young guy who immediately straightens up when she approaches. Within thirty seconds, she’s returning with a small paper to-go bag, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“Your powers of persuasion are terrifying,” I observe.
“I prefer ‘impressively effective.’” She holds the bag open like a surgical assistant. “Now grab our romantic destiny from the table before I change my mind about this whole thing.”
The way she says “romantic destiny” makes something inside me tighten. Watching her cradle that plain paper bag like it’s something fragile makes my chest ache. I want to be the one who keeps her safe like that.
I carefully maneuver the remaining paper slips into the clean bag with a satisfying rustle. Jordan immediately folds the top closed, cradling it like it contains precious gems rather than our questionable life choices.
“There,” she says, visibly relieved. “Crisis averted. Though I’m taking these home and transferring them to a proper Ziploc bag tonight. With labels. And… perhaps lamination.”
“You’re going to laminate our dates?”
“I’m a lawyer, Forge. Organization is my love language.” She tucks the paper bag carefully into her purse, then returns the hat to the lost and found with two fingers, nose wrinkled. “Godspeed, mysterious Dodgers cap. May you find your way home.”
I watch her perform this little ritual with barely suppressed amusement. “You know, most people don’t say goodbye to lost property.”
“Most people don’t use lost property to determine their romantic future.” She turns back to me with that devastating grin. “I haveto respect the hat’s service, even if I’m deeply concerned about its hygiene.”
“Noted for future reference: Jordan O’Brien respects objects that facilitate her happiness, even questionable ones.”
“Especially questionable ones. They build character.” She says with authority as she squirts more sanitizer into her hands.
The challenge in her voice sends something warmspiraling through my chest. Weeks of wondering, and here she is—not just agreeing to see me again, but matching my intensity with her own.
As we head back to gather our things, I find myself watching her animated face, the way she’s already planning our taco adventure with the same intensity she probably brings to contract negotiations. There’s something irresistible about a woman who’ll touch a stranger’s sweaty hat in the name of authentic romance.
“Question,” I say as we reach our table. “Rate your heat tolerance on a scale of one to ten.”
“Solid eight. Maybe nine if the flavor justifies the pain.” She slings her purse over her shoulder with new purpose. “Why? Are you planning to test my limits?”
“I know a place that serves birria so spicy it comes with a waiver.”
Her eyes light up with competitive fire. “Now you’re talking my language.”
The spark in her tone hits me all over again—proof that the wondering is over, replaced by something fierce and magnetic between us.
“Saturday at two, then. I’ll text you the meeting spot.” I offer my hand, and she takes it without hesitation this time. The contact is warm, grounding. “Fair warning—I take my taco research very seriously.”
“Good. I don’t respect people who half-ass their food adventures.” She adjusts the strap on her shoulder, then pauses, looking back at the discarded Dodgers hat.
“Best meet-cute story ever?”
“Definitely in the top five.” She heads toward the door, then glances back with a grin that makes my pulse stutter. It’s the kind of smile that reminds me how much trouble I’m already in. “Though I’m keeping the fact that I touched stranger sweat for you as leverage for future arguments.”
“Noted and filed appropriately.”
We step out into the early evening sun, and for a moment we just stand there on the sidewalk, the reality of what we’ve just committed to settling between us. No more wondering. No more extended radio silence. Just two people and twenty ridiculous activities… and whatever happens next.
“Forge?” Her voice is softer now, more uncertain.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not giving up on this. On us.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at me. “I’m not usually very good at taking chances.”
“You took a chance on a stranger’s hat. I’d say you’re braver than you think.”
Her laugh is bright and genuine. “Saturday, then. May the best birria win.”
