Page 35 of Thankful for My Orc
I watch her walk to her car, noting the new lightness in her step, the way she turns back to wave before driving away. All this time apart, broken by a gross baseball cap and a woman brave enough to risk authenticity over safety.
This is either going to be the best decision I’ve ever made, or the most educational mistake of my life.
Either way, I’m already in too deep to back out—and the truth is, I don’t want to.
Chapter Fourteen
Forge
Saturday afternoon finds me leaning against my truck in the parking lot of East L.A.’s most famous taco row, checking my watch for the third time in two minutes. Jordan’s not late—in fact, I’m fifteen minutes early because I couldn’t sit still in my apartment any longer—but that doesn’t stop the nervous energy buzzing under my skin.
Three days since our coffee shop negotiation, and I’ve spent most of that time second-guessing every word of our conversation. The way she laughed when I suggested the random selection method. The careful consideration in her eyes as she wrote her list. The moment her hand touched mine as we both reached to put our slips of paper in that gross Dodgers hat and something electric shot straight through my chest.
The crew noticed the change in me this week. Yesterday, Kam cornered me in the apparatus bay with that knowing grin. “Look at you, Ironwood,” he’d said, slapping my shoulder. “Walking around like you’ve got somewhere to be. Someone to impress.”
When I’d tried to brush it off, Thrall had chimed in from across the bay, “Leave him alone, Kam. Can’t you see he’s got that look?”
“What look?” I’d asked, immediately defensive.
“The look of a male who’s finally figured out he’s worth something,” Chief Brokka had said, appearing from his office. “About damn time, rookie.”
The entire crew had erupted in good-natured ribbing, but underneath the teasing, I’d caught their approval. Their belief that maybe I was finally starting to see myself the way they saw me.
For the first time since joining this crew—hell, maybe since coming through the Rift—I felt like I belonged. Not because I’d earned it or proved anything, but because they sawme. Not the nervous rookie or the orc trying too hard to fit in, but Forge. Someone worth betting on. Someone who deserved good things. Someone who might actually deserve Jordan.
Someone who might find his mate, or even his… soulbound.
The thought surprises me. Soulbonds are rare—at least according to the elders, it used to be. But we now have six soulbound pairs among the males in this fire station. Mygrandmother used to tell stories about how she knew my grandfather was her destiny the moment she saw him across a crowded market in the Old World. “Like lightning striking,” she’d say. “Like every part of your body suddenly knows its purpose.”
I’d always thought those stories were exaggerated, the romantic embellishments of an old orc reminiscing about better days. But lately, since meeting Jordan, I’ve been wondering if maybe Grandmother was more literal than I’d realized.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself, adjusting my collar. “You’re not bonding with anyone after one speed-dating disaster and two conversations.”
But the thought won’t leave me alone as I wait for her car to appear.
A familiar silver Honda pulls into the lot, and my pulse kicks up a notch. Through the windshield, I can see Jordan checking her makeup in the rearview mirror, and the small gesture sparks a sliver of hope in my chest. She’s nervous too.
She emerges from her car wearing dark jeans that hug her curves in ways that should probably be illegal, and a soft pumpkin-colored sweater that brings out the auburn highlights in her hair. Loose waves spill around her shoulders, catching the afternoon sunlight, and when she spots me and offers a tentative smile, my lungs forget how to work.
As she walks toward me, the confident set of her shoulders eases, revealing a flicker of vulnerability beneath her usual composure.When she’s close enough that I can smell her perfume—something floral with an edge of citrus—she stops and looks up at me with those caramel eyes.
“Please tell me you didn’t get here an hour early to scout the locations,” she says, shouldering a small crossbody bag.
“Only fifteen minutes,” I admit, pushing off from the truck. “And I may have researched the best birria trucks in a one-mile radius.”
“Of course you did.” But she’s still smiling, and there’s something lighter about her today. Less guarded. “So, what’s the plan? I assume you have this all organized in your mind, like the slips of paper.”
“Yep. Four trucks today… quality over quantity. We rate each one on a scale of one to ten, and we crown a champion. Unless you have a different strategy?”
“Oh, I absolutely have a strategy.” Her eyes light up with a competitive fire that makes me want to see more of this side of her. “First, we establish our criteria. Broth quality, meat texture, cheese game, tortilla freshness, and overall authenticity—unless you disagree.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Second, we pace ourselves—small portions at each stop so we can actually make it through all four. Third, we take notes.”
She pulls out her phone and opens a spreadsheet app, already pre-populated with the criteria she just mentioned.
“You’re taking this seriously,” I observe, charmed despite myself.
