Page 8 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
On my way out, I hesitate by her counter. The impulse is stupid—soft, foolish. But I dig into my vest pocket anyway, pull out a tiny wooden leaf I’d carved from scrap last night when I couldn’t sleep. Maple, curled as if caught mid-fall.
“Leftover bit,” I grunt, dropping it on her counter like it’s worthless bark. “Didn’t mean to toss it.”
Her mouth falls open in this small, delighted O that she tries—and fails—to smother. She picks it up so delicately you’d think it was spun sugar, cradling it in her palm.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. “Thank you, Thornak.”
“Weren’t a gift,” I lie, already stomping for the door.
“Sure it wasn’t,” she calls after me, bright and teasing, voice soft around the edges like maybe she knows better.
The walk back to my side of the forest winds through town, which I usually try to avoid. Streets too narrow, houses too close, too many prying eyes that flick from my tusks to my scars to my broad shadow on the cobblestones. Today’s worse—everyone’s buzzing with rumors after seeing me with Maddie.
Old Mrs. Tallow winks at me from her porch where she’s knitting socks that’ll probably end up too big even for my feet. A trio of dwarf stonecutters elbow each other and chuckle under their breath. A gaggle of pixie kids actually start following us fora block, whispering to each other in their chiming little voices about“the orc who stole the baker’s heart.”
I glare, low and flat, enough to send them scattering with squeaks of alarm.
Beside me, Maddie’s trying her damn best not to giggle.
“You really do have the best scowl,” she says, bumping her shoulder into my arm like she’s known me a lifetime instead of a handful of awkward conversations and a contract.
I grunt. “Keeps pests off.”
“Pity it doesn’t work on me,” she teases.
For a long moment I say nothing, just let her chatter fill up the spaces in me that’ve been hollow too long. She talks about apple tart variations she wants to try—honeyed walnut, spiced plum—about putting little jack-o’-lantern cutouts on top for the harvest fair. Her hands flutter as she describes it, whole body moving with her words, alive in a way that’s hard to look at without feeling like it might undo me.
By the time we reach the orchard fork, she stops, cheeks pink from more than the cold. “Well. I guess this is where I turn off. I’ll… see you tomorrow?”
I nod, gruff. “Tomorrow.”
Because apparently I’ve lost all good sense—I add, “Don’t forget to lock up. Saw fox prints near your henhouse last night.”
Her face lights up like I handed her a basket of gold coins. “You’re sweet to worry. See? Under all that grumping there’s a big soft?—”
“Don’t push it, sunshine,” I growl, already stomping off.
But for the rest of the walk through my woods, the quiet feels less heavy. Like maybe her laughter stuck to me, stubborn as burrs. And damned if I don’t catch myself almost smiling.
CHAPTER 7
MADDIE
Iwake up practically vibrating with nervous energy, bouncing on my toes as I mix up a fresh batch of pastry dough. I’m humming some silly little tune that isn’t even a real song, just notes strung together to keep my thoughts from spiraling into a big knotted mess ofwhat ifs.
Because today’s the pumpkin patch festival. Our first official “public outing.” Or, you know, our first fake date, depending on how you want to spin it—though if I start calling it that out loud, I’m pretty sure Thornak will break into hives.
I finish rolling out a sheet of dough and stare at it like it’s going to give me life advice. “Alright, Maddie Quinn. You’re about to drag the grumpiest, biggest orc this side of the Gray Peaks to a festival full of nosy neighbors, overeager children, and piping hot gossip. You’ve survived worse. Probably. Right?”
The dough doesn’t answer. Typical.
By late morning, the orchard’s a swirl of autumn gold and burnt orange, leaves drifting lazily through the air like confetti. Tents line the edge of the field, each one bursting with bright quilts, jars of spiced preserves, woven baskets, and little trinkets carved from gnarled apple wood. The air smells like roasted chestnuts, cinnamon, and woodsmoke.
I’ve got my own stall set up with three kinds of orchard-themed pies—classic apple with caramel drizzle, pumpkin-pecan with a sugared crust, and a brand new concoction: pear, ginger, and brown butter. I arrange them all on delicate wooden stands, then step back, hands on hips, admiring my little corner of edible heaven.
“Try to look casual,” I mutter to myself, spotting Thornak’s broad silhouette weaving between booths. “Don’t scare him off by squealing like you’ve won the harvest lottery.”
Of course, the second he reaches my stall, I absolutely beam at him anyway.
