“Jordan! You won! That’s amazing!” She beams at Forge. “I’m Riley, Jordan’s best friend—and the one responsible for dragging her here tonight.”
“Forge.” He offers his big, careful hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s mine. Jordan told me at the break how much fun she’s having.”
I shoot her a warning look, but she sails right past it.
Forge turns back to me, holding up the gift certificate between two fingers. “Looks like fate wants us to get coffee,” he says. “Maybe we should listen.”
The comment hits like a lightning bolt. Not because I don’t want to say yes, but because I do. When did that happen? When did Riley’s “crazy idea” grow tusks, muscles, and a smile that makes me ache in places I thought were frozen solid?
“I’d like that,” I hear myself say, my tone surprisingly genuine.
His smile blooms slow and sure, like sunrise breaking open sky. “Tomorrow morning at ten? Nonna’s Coffee is near the Zone. Best you’ll ever have. We’d better exchange cell numbers in case plans have to change.”
“It’s a date,” I blurt, then flush at my own words. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” His perceptive eyes hold mine a moment too long, the heat there unmistakable. “And yes. It is.”
Chapter Six
Jordan
Nonna’s Coffee sits just outside the Zone’s main gate, a cozy little place with mismatched chairs and the kind of worn wooden tables that suggest it’s been here since before the Zone existed. I arrive five minutes early—a lawyer’s habit—and claim a corner table where I can watch the door.
I’ve changed clothes three times this morning, which is ridiculous. It’s coffee, not a marriage proposal. But somehow I can’t shake the feeling that this matters in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine consumption.
Then Forge steps through the door, and my breath catches. Broad shoulders fill the doorway, shrinking the room around him. The sight jolts me harder than any espresso shot ever could. Outside the chaos of the firehouse mixer, he’s even moreimposing—yet the way his gaze sweeps the room, careful and almost shy, reminds me of the gentle soul I glimpsed last night.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, approaching the table. “There was a small emergency at the station.”
“Actually, you’re right on time. Hope it was nothing serious.”
“Cat stuck in a tree. Miss Whiskers decided to explore the old oak in the community garden.” His mouth quirks upward. “Turns out cats are much better at climbing up than coming down. She voiced her opinion of my rescue technique by trying to shred my jacket—left three new ventilation slits.”
A smile tugs at my mouth as I picture this large, serious orc coaxing a cranky cat out of a tree. “Maybe she just wanted a souvenir.”
Hard not to sympathize. Who wouldn’t want to take a piece of him home?
His low chuckle rumbles across the table. “If shredded leather jackets count as souvenirs, I already have a collection.”
“At least you’re giving the local cats something to remember you by,” I tease. His smile deepens, and for the first time this morning, I forget to be nervous.
He eases into the chair across from me, his knees awkwardly angled under the too-small table. Then, with a small smile, he’s back on his feet.
“Coffee?” he asks, already standing. “I should warn you, their espresso is strong enough to wake the dead.”
“Perfect. I need all the caffeine I can get after staying up until two AM going over depositions.”
He glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “You went home after the mixer, which was around ten o’clock on a Friday and worked?” His tone isn’t judgmental—just that calm, steady kind of concern that somehow lands deeper than a scolding. “You ever let yourself rest?”
“Occupational hazard,” I say lightly, though my cheeks warm.
He returns a minute later, balancing two tiny espresso cups in hands that look more suited to axes than china, and somehow the sight is absurdly, unfairly sexy. I can’t stop picturing what else those hands could handle.
“Drink,” he says with quiet amusement as he sets one cup in front of me. “Before I start feeling guilty for enabling your workaholism.”
I laugh, the sound slipping out easier than I expect. “Guess we’ll both live with the guilt.”
