Page 4 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
Great. Exactly who I needed to witness my one-woman slapstick routine.
But because my mother raised me to be polite even to grouchy strangers hiding in the bushes (which is arguably a questionable parenting decision), I give him my brightest grin and a cheery little wave.
“Hi there! Lovely morning for… uh… forest lurking?”
I immediately want to swallow my own tongue. Who even saysforest lurking?
His scowl deepens. He doesn’t say a word—just uncrosses his arms, gives me a look that’s equal parts irritation and something I can’t quite name, then turns on his heel and stalks back into the shadows. Within seconds he’s swallowed by the underbrush, leaving only the rustle of disturbed leaves behind.
“Well,” I sigh, flopping backward so I’m sprawled in the grass, arms thrown wide. “That went about as smoothly as a porcupine in a feather bed.”
I lie there for a moment longer, staring up at a patch of sky that’s crisscrossed by high, thin branches. The blue is sharp and deep, like someone polished it just for today. A flock of tiny silverfinches flutters by, twittering to each other in high, musical notes that sound like gossip.
“Don’t suppose you have any bright ideas, do you?” I call up to them.
Naturally, they don’t respond, just wheel off toward the edge of the orchard.
I sit up again with a groan, brushing twigs out of my cardigan. I probably shouldn’t let Thornak’s glowering bother me—he’s always been a bit of an enigma around town, a towering shape people cross the street to avoid. Kids whisper about his tusks and the scars on his arms, say he once fought a mountain troll barehanded.
But I’ve also seen him from my bakery window in the early mornings, pausing outside with this odd, soft look on his face, like maybe he wants to come in but can’t quite bring himself to cross the threshold. Once I even caught him watching me through the glass when I was arranging pies, and for the briefest flicker of a heartbeat, he looked almost… lonely.
Which means maybe he’s not all scowls and rough edges.
I start gathering up my scattered apples, muttering under my breath. “Alright Maddie, pull it together. You’ve survived flour shortages, three separate plumbing disasters at the shop, and that one time Tessa enchanted your measuring cups so everything came out four times too salty. You can survive one broody orc with a permanent frown.”
As I’m hunting for the last wayward apple—wedged right under a stubborn tangle of wild mint—I hear someone clear their throat behind me.
My heart leaps so hard it nearly hits my teeth. I spin around, clutching my apple like it’s a weapon, only to see a lanky human man in a tailored charcoal jacket standing there with an oily smile.
“Oh—hello?” I say, trying to hide the way my voice cracks.
“Miss Quinn, is it?” His tone is smooth, too smooth, like syrup hiding something rotten. “My name is Alderic Wintrow. I represent the new development consortium looking to invest in these lands. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”
“Unfortunately,” I say, because tact was never my strongest suit.
His smile tightens just a hair. “Well. I thought I’d drop by personally, see if we couldn’t come to some sort of arrangement that benefits everyone. You know how these things go—progress waits for no one, after all.”
I hug the apple to my chest. “If by ‘progress’ you mean tearing down every tree and paving over my aunt’s orchard to build glittery rental cottages, I think I’ll pass, thanks.”
His eyes narrow, though the smile never slips. “A pity. Still, I’ll leave my card. Should you… reconsider.”
He hands me a stiff little rectangle embossed in gold leaf. I take it, mostly so I don’t look like I’m about to hurl it back in his face, and watch as he tips his hat and strolls off through the orchard like he owns it.
I relax when he’s gone, stuffing the card deep into my pocket like maybe it’ll spontaneously combust if I keep it close to my body long enough.
Then I glance toward the edge of the trees again. No sign of Thornak—just the silent, watchful forest.
Still, something inside me firms up like bread dough finally rising. If that slick stranger thinks I’m going to roll over and let him take this place, he’s got another thing coming.
Even if it means chasing down a big, intimidating orc with a scowl sharp enough to cut steel and begging him to help me pull off the world’s most absurd fake marriage.
I am not losing this orchard without a fight.
CHAPTER 4
THORNAK
Night falls heavy over my cabin, the kind of thick, dark quiet that presses close and makes the fire crackle louder by contrast. The logs in the hearth burn slow and steady, throwing dancing shadows across the walls. I sit at my workbench, knife in hand, carving tiny lines into a block of cedar that smells sharp and sweet every time I shave off a curl.
