He’s grouchy in the mornings. And evenings. And pretty much all the other times of the day. Makes it easy for me to annoy him.
But it’s clear that Poppy has officially gotten to me, with her blushing cheeks and soft lavender hair. And even after breaking a sweat on the field for an hour as the sun slowly rises, I’m still not sure what to do about it.
I’m not usually nervous around women. I’ve been chasing girls since I was thirteen. But something about Poppy makes me feel like I’m back to being that nervous teenageragain, trying to figure out how to ask a girl to get cinnamon buns with me after class. She makes me feel like I’ve never done this before. And I kind of like it.
I grab a towel from my bag and mop the sweat from my face, then turn my gaze up to the sun as it lifts high enough to bathe me in soft golden light.
“Morning, Ma,” I whisper.
She used to love sunrises. She’d wake me early in the mornings, when it was still dark, and get me all bundled up before taking me outside, where I’d sit in her lap, cuddled against her chest, and we’d watch the sun come up together. It didn’t matter what time of year it was either. Summer or winter, in bare feet or boots, we’d be out there to tell the sun good morning.
I reach under the fabric of my sweat-soaked tunic and grip the glowing silver ring hanging around my neck. Then I pull my gaze reluctantly away from the sunrise and head back to the castle to get ready for my date—no, mytutoring session—with Poppy Waverly.
WHEN I GET TO THE library, having bathed and dressed and hurriedly grabbed a blueberry muffin from the dining hall, it’s already humming with life; a fire crackles in the hearth, chasing the morning chill away, and a few students linger about, chatting quietly and bent over books with furrowed brows, their quills scratching away at rough parchment.
I cast my gaze around for Poppy but don’t immediately see her. So I wander a bit, exploring areas of the library I’venever seen before, eating my blueberry muffin covertly—the librarian will chase me out if she sees me with it—as I go. And by the time I’ve finished my breakfast, I find Poppy in a small sunlit nook tucked away in a corner of the library, partially shielded on one side by a plant with big flat leaves in shades of blue and green.
She hasn’t seen me yet. She’s got a notebook open in front of her and is gazing out the window beside the table, chin propped in her hand, looking lost in thought. Her lavender hair is pulled up into a twist with a stick stabbed through it, revealing the column of her throat.
Immediately, I start to wonder what it would feel like to trail my lips across her smooth brown skin, to press a kiss to that sensitive spot behind her ear. Would it make her catch her breath? Whisper my name?
Those thoughts immediately stir a tightening in my low belly, and I push them roughly away before approaching the table.
“Morning, Brains,” I say as I step up beside her.
I’m an orc, not a shifter, and unlike the latter, we’re not exactly known for stealthy movement. But Poppy must’ve been even deeper in thought than I realized, because she lets out a startled squeal and jumps so hard that she sends her notebook flying off the table, its pages fluttering as it falls.
“Aric!” she says, trying to catch her breath. “I didn’t—wait!”
I bend to pick up her notebook from where it landed beside my boot. The pages flop open, and I don’tmeanto read what’s on the page. But my eyes scan the neatly written words before I can stop them.
Tutoring Guidelines and Rules
Meet twice a week: Tuesday afternoons and Saturday mornings
No off-topic discussions—classwork and party planning only
He smiles at everyone—don’t overanalyze it
Ignore how he smells like woodsmoke and cedar
I blink, then read the rules again. Out loud, I say, “Ignore how he smells like woodsmoke and cedar.” One of my brows arches. “Is that an issue? Should I try to address that? Warn the student body?” I look up at Poppy with a smile, only to find her frozen solid, eyes wide, mouth parted in a look of horror. “Hey, you okay?”
