Page 49 of Thankful for My Orc
“I’m sure.” As I reach for his hands, I note the calluses and small scars that speak of years of careful craftsmanship. “I’ve spent enough time hiding the parts of my life that matter. I’m done with that.”
He studies my face in the warm workshop light. “I’d be honored to go with you.”
“Fair warning—it’s going to be fancy. Tuxedos and champagne and probably some very boring speeches about billable hours.”
“I clean up okay,” he says with a grin. Suddenly, he goes very still, warm copper eyes searching my face. “Jordan…”
“What?”
“Are you sure about this? About us? Because once I meet your colleagues, once this becomes public in your professional world, it will change things for you. There’s no taking it back.”
The question deserves an honest answer. Standing in his workshop, surrounded by everything he’s built with patience and skill, it suddenly feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m sure,” I tell him. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He leans down and kisses me then, soft and full of promise. When we break the kiss, I’m breathing unsteadily and his eyes have gone dark with heat.
“We should probably clean up here,” he says softly, though his hands linger at my waist. “Before we get too distracted.”
“I suppose we should,” I agree, though I make no move to step away. His intense gaze holds mine, and I can see the question forming before he asks it.
“I’m sure about you,” I tell him honestly. “I’m sure about this. About us.”
I think about the cutting board we made together—rough around the edges but solid, built to last. Maybe that’s what love really is. Not the perfect fairy tale I used to dream about, but something real and imperfect and strong enough to weather whatever comes next.
Something worth building together, one careful step at a time.
Chapter Eighteen
Jordan
The mirror in my bedroom reflects a woman I barely recognize. The midnight blue silk dress clings in all the right places, my hair is swept up in an elegant chignon, and my makeup is flawless. I look like a woman who belongs in a black-tie world—polished, powerful, untouchable.
Inside, though, I’m teetering on the razor’s edge of a panic attack—chest tight, breathing shallow, and mouth dry.
“Get it together, Jordan,” I mutter to my reflection and adjust my pearl earrings again. “This is just another professional event. You’ve done dozens of these.”
But that’s a lie. This isn’t just another professional event. This time, I’m walking in with Forge at my side.
My phone buzzes with a text from Forge:Outside when you’re ready. No rush.
Just the simple message makes my shoulders relax a bit. No pressure, no impatience, just quiet support. I grab my clutch and take one last look in the mirror.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “You can have both a career and a relationship.” Somehow, a part of me believes tonight’s gala will make or break that idea.
I make my way downstairs and open the front door, then stop breathing altogether.
Forge stands beside his truck wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo that transforms him from devastatingly handsome to absolutely lethal. The jacket fits his broad shoulders like it was made for him, the black bow tie is crisp and straight, and his hair is pulled back in a low ponytail that makes him look polished while still maintaining that slightly wild edge that makes my knees weak.
He looks up as I step outside, and I watch his eyes widen before traveling slowly from my head to my toes and back again.
“Goddess, Jordan,” he breathes. “You look…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I don’t have words.”
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I manage. The words kind of roll together because my mind isn’t working on all cylinders. I’ve always thought he was attractive, but this elevates him toa whole new category. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about the whole formal thing.”
“Are you kidding? I get to spend the evening with the most beautiful woman in L.A. on my arm.” He opens the passenger door of his truck, which I notice has been detailed to a spotless shine. “I’d wear a tux every day if it meant seeing you look at me like that.”
As he helps me into the truck, his hand lingers on mine for just a moment longer than necessary. The simple touch sparks heat under my skin, not the flash of lust but the slow burn of recognition—something deeper, more dangerous.
