Page 9 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
He’s cleaned up a little—hair tied back tighter than usual, shirt brushed off, though there’s still a stubborn bit of sawdust clinging to his sleeve. He stands there awkwardly, massive hands dangling at his sides, tusks catching the light.
“You came!” I chirp, like I’m surprised, even though he said he would.
“Didn’t want your scheming elf friend accusing me of runnin’ off,” he grumbles, eyes darting everywhere but my face.
“That’s extremely valid,” I say, grinning. “Also, hi. Welcome to your first pumpkin patch festival as my… uh… betrothed. Sort of. Temporarily.”
He grunts something that might be“stars above help me,”but I pretend not to hear it.
A cluster of local kids goes scampering by, shrieking with laughter, and two of them stop dead when they spot Thornak looming next to my pie table. One little girl with her hair in twin braids tugs her friend’s sleeve and whispers—loud enough for all of us to hear—“Is that a real orc or just a costume?”
Thornak stiffens like he’s bracing for a blow.
I lean over, stage-whispering back, “He’s very real, and he’s got a terrible weakness for caramel apple tarts. Totally harmless unless you’re a pie.”
The kids giggle so hard they nearly trip over each other running off, and when I glance up, I catch Thornak fighting the ghost of a grin.
“Don’t start,” he mutters.
“I didn’t say a word,” I sing, even though my whole face feels like it might crack in half from smiling.
I decide to push my luck. I pick up a little fork loaded with a piece of pumpkin-pecan pie, holding it out toward him with a hopeful wiggle. “Here. Just try it. I swear it’ll make the entire ordeal worth it.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t feed me like some pampered house cat.”
“Oh come on, it’s a festival. Live a little.” I lean closer, batting my eyelashes in the most absurd exaggerated way, which earns me a flat, resigned look.
After what feels like an entire season—he huffs, bends down, and carefully takes the bite straight off the fork. His tusks brush my knuckles on accident, warm breath ghosting over my skin. The sudden contact sends a fizz of heat shooting up my arm and landing somewhere decidedly inconvenient.
I have to swallow hard, voice a squeaky little mess when I finally squeak out, “Good, right?”
Thornak chews with exaggerated slowness. Then grunts, “Could be worse.”
“Oh don’t you even pretend,” I scold, smacking his arm with the back of my hand. “That’s the face of a man whose life was just changed by brown sugar and roasted pecans.”
His rumbling snort says otherwise, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, which I’m tentatively choosing to file underprogress.
We wander the festival together, me pointing out all my favorite little stalls—Mrs. Penwhistle’s embroidery, the dwarven cider press, the gnome-run honey tasting. Every time I get close,Thornak tenses up like he’s bracing for me to fling myself bodily into his arms.
“Relax,” I tease, bumping his elbow. “We’re supposed to look like a couple. You can handle that for an afternoon, can’t you?”
“Not the problem,” he mutters.
“Then what is?”
His eyes dart to a pair of older human women watching us from behind a stack of knitted scarves, whispering behind their hands with barely contained delight.
“Those hens are plotting our wedding colors already. Bet one’s halfway done knitting a matching pair of bloody mittens.”
I can’t help it—I burst out laughing so hard I nearly drop my cider cup.
Eventually we make our way to the corn maze on the far end of the field, which is towering and sprawling and lined with fluttering little orange flags. The maze entrance is crowded, all chatter and giggles and someone’s lute music drifting on the breeze.
“You sure about this?” Thornak rumbles, eyeing the maze like it’s personally offended him.
“What, scared of a few stalks of corn?” I tease.
“Scared of you gettin’ lost in there and me havin’ to listen to your shrieking all the way to the Gray Peaks.”
