“Goddess,” Kam whistles low. “Hearing that makes my stomach cramp. No wonder she’s not responding. You went from zero to stalker in record time.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I mutter. He didn’t have to tell me, though. I re-read it five minutes after sending and wanted to throw my phone—or myself—off a bridge.
“Hey, I’m not saying the sentiment was wrong. Just the execution.” He shifts his weight on his crate. “Look, I’m no expert on human females, but running doesn’t always mean she doesn’t care. Sometimes it means she cares too much and doesn’t know what to do with it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Think about it. If she really didn’t care, if it really was just a mistake to her, would she have run? Or would she have stayed and had a rational conversation about keeping things casual?”
I haven’t thought about it that way. “She ran because…?”
“She ran because what she felt scared the hell out of her. And instead of giving her space to process that fear, you’ve been texting her like someone who doesn’t know when to back off.”
The truth hits harder than I want to admit. “So what am I supposed to do? Just forget about her?”
“Hell no. You’re supposed to court her properly.” Kam straightens, brushing dust off his uniform. “Show her you’reserious about more than just getting her back in your bed. Prove that what you felt was real and worth fighting for.”
“You’re right,” I say, cutting him off before he can build up steam. The words come out firmer than I expected, and I realize I mean them. “Sheisworth fighting for.”
Kam blinks, clearly surprised by my tone. “Wait, really? You’re not going to argue with me about respecting her boundaries or giving her space?”
“Iamgoing to respect her boundaries. But that doesn’t mean giving up.” I straighten, feeling something shift in my chest—a decision being made, a line being drawn. “She’s scared because of what her ex did to her. I get that. But I’m not him, and she needs to see that I’m not going anywhere just because things got intense.”
“So, what’s the plan?”
“I’ve had some ideas circling in the back of my mind. I’m going to prove to her that this isn’t just physical. That I see all of her—not just the brilliant lawyer or the incredible lover, but the woman who’s been hurt and is trying to protect herself.” I meet Kam’s eyes steadily. “I’m going to show her that some males keep their promises.”
The smile that spreads across Kam’s face is proud. “There’s the Forge we’ve been waiting to meet. About damn time you showed up.”
Before I can ask what he means, the alarm bells ring. Structure fire, two blocks away. We run for the trucks, the conversation shelved but not forgotten.
Jordan O’Brien thinks she’s protecting us both by staying away. But she’s about to learn that orcs don’t give up easily when we find something—someone—worth claiming.
And whether this is soulbinding or something simpler but just as powerful, she’s worth every minute I’ll spend proving it to her.
I find the sign-up sheet for the speed-dating event, find Riley’s number, and text her. If Jordan won’t answer me, perhaps her friend Riley will help me connect with her. Words can wait. Actions can’t.
Chapter Twelve
Jordan
I’m barely out of the courthouse doors when my phone buzzes with a text from Riley that stops me mid-step.
Riley:EMERGENCY. Meet me at Caffeine & Wine on Spring Street. 15 minutes.
I don’t even think before I’m moving. Riley says “jump,” and I’ve spent the past eight years jumping—sometimes into work, sometimes into cocktails, once into an ill-advised spin class. I’m Pavlov’s dog, but with billable hours.
I’m only halfway down the courthouse steps when I frown at the text again.Emergency.That’s not Riley’s word. Dramatic, sure. Sarcastic, often. But she doesn’t usually pull the fire alarm unless it’s real. And why Caffeine & Wine? It’s a bar-slash-coffeehouse, not our office, not our usual happy-hour spot. Odd. But still—if Riley says it’s urgent, I show up.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m scanning Caffeine & Wine’s crowded interior for Riley’s blonde hair. The place is sleek and modern, all clean lines and industrial lighting, with the kind of deliberately minimal aesthetic that screams expensive to anyone who knows downtown L.A. Not my usual scene, but Riley loves it here.
I spot her at a corner table, and something immediately feels off. She’s sitting too straight, checking her phone too often, and when she sees me approaching, her smile is about three degrees too bright.
“Thank God you’re here,” she says, jumping up to hug me. “I ordered you a coffee. The good kind, nothing like the office swill.”
“What’s the emergency?” I ask, sliding into the chair across from her. “And why are we meeting here instead of the office?”
“Right. The emergency.” Riley’s eyes dart toward the entrance, then back to me.
