Chapter One Georgia

I n just five days, my twin brother is getting married to the woman who is perfect for him. And I'm the maid of honor for said perfect woman, my sister-to-be, Claire.

I'm excited for Georgie and Claire, honest.

I just...

I've been a maid of honor or bridesmaid three times in six months, and I'm officially thirty now.

It's happened. I'm an old maid.

Is it my fault I look like a cute blonde human, but I'm actually Half-Orc and want to be courted like one?

I want a man to lay his kingdom and the heads of my enemies at my feet. I want him to think marriage and family are precious.

I want him to be hung like a stallion with a knot like a big Granny Smith apple!

And if he were that same shade of green and had tusks like a rutting warthog, I wouldn't say no.

Who am I kidding? I'd say a big fat yes faster than he could get his kilt off.

"What's wrong?"

I jump.

My mother is in the coffee shop my brother and I run, The Pine Loft. She's underfoot all the time right now as she's the mother of the groom, and kind of acting like the mother of the bride, too, since Claire's mother is gone and her dad is a big, fat bastard. The rehearsal dinner is going to be at The River House, the wedding and reception will be at White Pines, and the coffee shop is kind of home base as Georgie and Claire are doing their own catering and making their own cake (crazies), and they live upstairs.

"Wrong? Nothing! Just tired. Where's Dad?"

"On his way in from the airport. He'll be here in a few minutes."

I nod. My dad and Claire's adopted dad, Renaldo, have been running a shuttle service around Pine Ridge and to and from the airport in Binghamton. Relatives from Scotland, England, and Ireland have been flying in. Even though we have a lot of acreage set aside for clan members, my dad and only like one set of cousins ever settled in this part of the States.

"Who is it this time?" I ask.

My mother unwraps a plate of Granny Fenclan's Scottish Shortbread and a plate of gingerbread Orcs. Those are the first things Georgie ever made, and I think my mother is feeling super nostalgic this week. Even though my brother outcooks her, she's been feeding him and babying him like he's moving to Antarctica instead of getting hitched.

Whatever. I'm feeling a little lost, too. Georgie and I may butt heads, but he's my brother. My twin. My business partner.

And the way he acted, like a huge grump...I never thought I'd have to share him. He was the one person I thought would be alone as long as I was.

He's moving on. All of my friends are moving on. Hell, my bestie, Gloria, who's a ghost, got hitched before me.

I swallow hard. Loneliness sucker punches me, the bastard.

"Georgia? You look ill," Mom pulls a chair over and forces me to sit.

"I'm fine! I'm just... hungry. I haven't eaten yet."

"Eaten lunch or dinner?" Mom's face scrunches with worry, pale ageless features under silvery blonde hair reminding me that I shouldn't mind that I don't take after the Orcish side of the family. Mom is beautiful, and I look a lot like her, only younger.

There are only a couple of spots where we're different and the Orc side shows up—and one of them is definitely not public knowledge.

Not that I'm green there.

I force a smile and tell loneliness to bugger off. I have so much to be happy about. "Either. I uh... I forgot to eat since breakfast."

"Cookie. Now."

"Mom, I—"

Before I can finish the protest, my mother shoves a gingerbread Orc (a gingerbread man with green buttercream skin and a royal icing kilt) into my mouth, headfirst.

Which is exactly when the Orc version of the Highlander (my fantasy crush forever) strides into my shop.

He has long, wispy brown hair with a slight sprinkle of gray at the temples, an angular haunted face, a commanding manner, and he's wearing a neat black jacket over a tartan kilt—not the Fenclan tartan.

This man is not our relative?

Maybe a cousin of a different clan?

"Ahh! Dougie, there she is, my wee'n, all grown up and lovely as Farrah was the day I met her! Georgia, love, say hello to Mr. Wickstaff, my old boyhood friend." My father practically tosses the hottest Orc I've ever seen at me while I try to swallow half a cookie without the aid of chewing.

Coughing ensues.

Not the little ladylike cough. The coughing where your face is red, your eyes run, your nose leaks, and you wonder if this is how you die.

My mother slams her petite but strong hand down on my back, and I spit a tiny, spit-covered cookie head at the feet of Mr. Suave and Sexy.

"Hi, Mr. Wickstaff," I croak out.

"I didn't mean to take you by surprise." His voice holds notes of the Highlands, smooth and lilting, but deep and rich. Mellow. Amused.

You could remove an iron chastity belt with a voice like that.

I wipe off my face on one of the napkins on the counter and nod, unable to form words. Well, not the kind you say out loud.

I want that man to take me. Instantly. By surprise. Anywhere. Maybe in the middle of a Highland glen. Maybe on the floor of my living room. I don't care.

I always thought the reason I couldn't find a mate was because I was picky.

I was right. I don't want just any man.

I want that man.

It's only after I retreat to the sink to wash my face and blow bits of cookie out of my windpipe that the little pieces connect in my lust-addled brain.

Mr. Wickstaff? My dad's boyhood friend?

Oh my gosh. I have a thing for a much older man. Correction, much older Orc.

"You scared me!" My mother is behind me, holding a bottle of water and hissing.

I sneak a glance back toward the counter, where my dad is proudly showing Wickstaff around. "Yeah, well. I'm kind of shocked myself."