Page 13 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
“Reckless,” I grumble, though my chest does a strange, tight little twist at the idea of her falling and me being the one to break it.
It’s sweltering by midmorning, sun glaring down like it’s personally offended by my existence. I give up on wearing a shirt halfway through planing the new beam. Maddie’s perched on the porch steps with a basket of peeled apples, pretending she’s not watching me while her cheeks burn hotter than the orchard cider. Every time I glance over, her gaze darts away so fast she nearly loses her balance.
“You’ll get a crick in your neck staring like that,” I rumble, mostly to be an ass, which seems safer than acknowledging the hungry little look she keeps sending my way.
Her mouth pops open, eyes wide. “I wasn’t— I mean, it’s just— you’re very…dedicatedto your craft, that’s all.”
“Uh huh.”
She makes a strangled noise, huffs, then tosses an apple peel at me. It bounces off my shoulder harmlessly. “Stop being smug about it.”
When the porch rail’s finally sturdy under my hands, I stand back to test the posts, rocking them gently. They hold. But it feels… bare. Wrong somehow, for this place. So before I can talk myself out of it, I pull out my carving knife and start etching a pattern along the main beam—a lazy curling knotwork of vines and tiny leaf clusters, half memory of the orchard itself, half dream.
I lose track of time. The sun shifts, the orchard hums with wind through branches, and my hands just move. When I finally step back, Maddie’s right there, hovering so close I can feel her breath. Her eyes are wide and soft, mouth parted.
“Oh Thornak,” she whispers, reaching out to trace a finger over the little carved leaves. “It’s beautiful. You didn’t have to— I mean, this is art. Not just fixing something broken. You made it… us.”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and she sucks in a tiny gasp like she hadn’t meant to say it.
I clear my throat, suddenly too hot all over again. “Just seemed fitting. Didn’t want it plain.”
“Still,” she says, smiling so bright I nearly have to look away, “thank you. Truly. It means more than I can say.”
I pack up my tools quickly after that, pretending I don’t notice the way her eyes linger on the lines of my arms or the careful way she bites her lip whenever I catch her. She standsby the railing as I shoulder my bag, hands gripping the newly carved beam like she can’t quite let it go.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” she blurts when I start down the path.
I pause, exhale slow. “Yeah. You will.”
Then I walk off before I do something idiotic. Like lean down and kiss her right there on the newel post I just carved, taste cinnamon and bright laughter and make a complete fool of myself.
Back in my cabin that night, I can’t settle. I pace the floor, stare out at the moonlit clearing, then sit at my workbench, knife in hand. I start on another scrap of wood—just something to keep my hands busy, I tell myself. Something small.
But it doesn’t stay simple. Turns into a cluster of tiny pumpkins twined with leaves, the lines delicate, edges smoothed under my thumb. I set it down and scowl at it like it betrayed me.
Because the truth gnaws at me from inside out. I’m starting to hope. Hope for mornings where she greets me with flour in her hair, for evenings where she falls asleep against me like she did on that festival bench.
Hope for more.
And that’s dangerous ground for a beast like me.
CHAPTER 11
MADDIE
I’ve been practically vibrating with anticipation all morning, so much so that I nearly burn three trays of walnut scones because I keep daydreaming instead of setting the timer. The bakery’s bustling in its usual cheerful chaos—gnomes arguing about who gets the biggest tart, dwarves nursing steaming mugs of dark roast, a pair of giggling elf sisters buying out half my pear turnovers—but my mind is a thousand steps ahead, sprinting straight toward Thornak.
Because today I finally get to give him the gift I’ve been hiding for a week.
It’s a custom flannel shirt—dark pine green with rich brown checks—that I had tailored special by Alma Rindle, the village’s best seamstress. Took three separate visits to get the measurements right, and at least two awkward explanations that no, it was not for some“surprise elopement,”thank you very much, nosy town gossips. But I wanted something that would actually fit Thornak’s broad shoulders, wouldn’t pull awkwardly across his chest, wouldn’t rip at the seams every time he moved.
Mostly, I wanted to give him something that was… his. Made with thought, with care, with hands that meant well.
By midafternoon, I can’t take it anymore. I load up a little basket with fresh apple fritters—still warm, sugar clinging in happy little clumps—tuck the flannel inside, and set off up the path toward the forest. The orchard sighs around me, sun painting the leaves a riot of gold and copper. I half-hum, half-chatter to myself the entire way, practicing how I’ll hand it over.
“Just thought you could use a shirt that doesn’t look like it’s begging for mercy.”
No, too cheeky.
