I did not sign up for a 6’8” shirtless orc destroying my life at five in the morning.
One bone saw through a paper-thin wall and my perfect wedding cake became modern art. So I stormed next door in my vintage dress and heels, ready to commit murder with a piping bag.
Instead I got a green mountain of muscle who apologizes by leaving forty-five-day dry-aged tomahawk steaks on my welcome mat like some deranged orc love language. He’s massive. He’s territorial.
He’s convinced I’m his. And the worst part? Every time he pins me against the alley wall and growls that I’m his prime cut, my stupid body agrees. I’m supposed to be the reasonable one here.
So why am I letting the butcher next door knock down every wall — literal and figurative — between us? Because apparently I have a type: rude, ripped, and ridiculously obsessed with me.
Read on for enemies-to-lovers neighbor chaos, size-difference spice, protective orc alpha, meat-as-courtship comedy, and a tiny baker who finally lets the big green monster win. HEA Guaranteed!
