Diplomatic training.Right. This isn't just some random orc who wandered onto a reality show. He's here for political reasons, cultural representation, image management. The weight of that responsibility must be enormous.
"Well, casual conversation is overrated anyway," I say, surprising myself with the admission. "Most people just talk to fill silence without actually saying anything meaningful."
Those amber eyes focus on me again with that same intense attention. "You prefer directness."
"I prefer honesty. Even when it's awkward."
"Most humans find orc directness uncomfortable."
"Most humans haven't spent six years running a small business where sugar-coating problems gets you bankrupt." I shrug. "Sometimes blunt is better than polite."
"Yes." The word comes out with surprising force. "Exactly yes."
We stand there for a moment, and I realize this is the first genuine conversation I've had since arriving at the set. Notperformance, not strategy, just two people figuring out how to communicate across cultural differences.
Then Jessica's voice yells through the moment: "Ladies, time to rotate!"
Shit.Fifteen minutes gone already. I haven't done any of the flirting or charm offensive I'd planned. No witty banter, no strategic questions about his interests, no laying groundwork for future connections.
I've just talked. Like a normal person.
"Trinity." Korgan's voice stops me as I turn to leave. "Your cinnamon rolls. I would like to try them."
"Oh. Sure, I can?—"
"Now?"
I glance around the ballroom, noting the cameras tracking every interaction, the producers hovering nearby, the other women shooting daggers at anyone who seems to be making a connection.
"They're in the kitchen," I say. "But we're supposed to stay here for the mixer..."
"Fuck the mixer."
The blunt pronouncement makes me laugh, a real laugh, not the practiced titter I'd been planning to deploy. "We can't just leave. Jessica will have a heart attack."
"Let her." He's already moving toward the exit, somehow making his massive frame glide through the crowd without bumping anyone. "Good food deserves proper attention. Not theater."
Good food deserves proper attention.It's possibly the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, even though he probably doesn't mean it that way.
I follow him toward the kitchen area, ignoring Jessica's increasingly frantic gestures and the camera crew scrambling to keep up. Let the other women work the room with practicedcharm. I've apparently found the one bachelor who values substance over performance.
The catering kitchen feels blissfully quiet after the ballroom chaos. I retrieve the container of leftover cinnamon rolls from the industrial refrigerator, suddenly nervous about his reaction. What if he really does think they're weak? What if orc taste buds work differently and human sweetness tastes terrible to him?
What if this is the worst idea I've ever had and I'm about to humiliate myself on national television?
"Here." I set the container on the stainless steel counter, lifting the lid to reveal four remaining rolls. "Still warm, I think."
Korgan approaches the counter with the same focused attention he gave our conversation. He examines the rolls first, their golden color, the way the cinnamon swirl creates patterns in the dough, the slight gloss of cream cheese frosting.
Then he picks one up.
His hands are enormous, calloused from what must be years of weapons training, but he handles the pastry with surprising delicacy. Like he understands it's something crafted, not just food to be consumed.
He takes a bite.
I hold my breath, watching his expression for any hint of his reaction. His heavy-lidded eyes close briefly, jaw working thoughtfully as he processes flavors and textures.
Please don't hate it. Please don't think it's weak or too sweet or?—
