Page 39 of Orc'd At A Wedding
A server appears with a tray of champagne flutes, and I grab one gratefully. Olog declines with a polite shake of his head.
"Still on duty?" I ask, trying to sound teasing instead of anxious.
He glances down at me, his expression softening.
"Always when I'm with you."
My heart flips like fish out of water.
The next hour passes in a blur of small talk and forced smiles. Various relatives drift over to interrogate us, each one clearly trying to poke holes in our story. Olog handles every question with unshakable calm, embellishing our fictional relationship with details so specific and romantic that I almost start believing them myself.
We met at a charity diving event. He noticed me immediately because I was the only person who looked genuinely terrified of the water. He offered to be my diving partner. I fell out of the raft twice. He pulled me back in both times. By the end of the day, we were inseparable.
It's a good story. Plausible. Sweet. Exactly the kind of meet-cute that would make my family grudgingly approve.
Except it's completely fake.
Unlike what happened in the bathroom, which was searingly, devastatingly real.
I down my champagne and grab another glass from a passing server.
The wedding coordinator appears on the terrace with her clipboard and a microphone, announcing that the reception is ready and guests should make their way inside to find their assigned seats.
Olog offers me his arm, and we join the migration into the ballroom.
The space has been transformed. Enormous floral arrangements explode from every surface, crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, and the tables are set with enough silverware to confuse even Emily Post.
We locate our assigned table, mercifully not at the head table with the wedding party, but not far enough away to escape scrutiny—and settle into our seats.
My second cousin Camden is already there with his wife, Jennifer, both of them looking mildly drunk and very bored. They brighten when they see Olog.
"Holy shit," Camden says, with the kind of blunt honesty that only emerges after several cocktails. "You're huge. Like, professional athlete huge."
"Camden," Jennifer hisses, elbowing him.
"What? I'm just saying. The guy is massive. It's a compliment."
Olog inclines his head graciously.
"Thank you."
"So what do you bench? Three-fifty? Four hundred?"
"I don't typically measure," Olog says. "But I appreciate the interest."
Camden leans forward conspiratorially.
"You know Bliss's ex is here, right? Total tool. Works in finance. Has a face you just want to punch."
"Camden!" Jennifer looks mortified.
"I'm just saying, if anyone wants to punch him, I think we'd all understand. Emotionally. As a concept."
"I'll keep that in mind," Olog says, his tone perfectly neutral, though I catch the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that suggests he's fighting a smile.
The servers begin delivering the first course—some kind of artfully arranged salad that's mostly edible flowers and intimidation—and I push the greens around my plate without actually eating anything.
My stomach is in knots. The reception timeline is printed on elegant cardstock at each place setting, and I keep glancing at it, calculating how many hours we have left.
