I didn’t ask for the six-foot-something exiled orc with tusks and a permanent scowl to crash into my newsroom.
But here he is—Brakkor Vane, disgraced big-city journalist—stomping all over my perfectly organized life like he owns the cobblestones.
He calls my festival coverage “fluff.” I assign him the world’s most boring decor piece just to watch him suffer.
Then the shipments start vanishing, the harvest festival teeters on collapse, and suddenly the only way to save my town is to team up with the arrogant orc who makes my blood boil… and other parts inconveniently warm.
Now we’re stuck in late-night stakeouts, too-small wagons, and one very tiny cottage where “hate” is starting to feel suspiciously like foreplay. He says he’s staying after this.
I say prove it, big guy. Because if this orc thinks he can waltz in, ruin my deadlines, and ruin me in the best way possible… He better be ready to earn every single sheet he wants to rumple.
Read on for enemies-to-lovers snark, forced-proximity heat, protective orc obsession, small-town festival chaos, and a buttoned-up editor who’s about to learn monsters bite back deliciously.
HEA guaranteed!
