Page 17 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
“Thank you,” I say, stepping away from his arms.
He lets me go instantly, like he knows the second I’m not ready.
I dust my skirt off. Fiddle with a piece of twine. Pretend the way my hands are shaking is from the fall andnotfrom him.
Drogath doesn’t say a word.
He just nods, jaw tight, eyes unreadable again.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, not quite meeting his gaze. “It was just hay.”
“Still.” His voice is low, careful. “Could’ve been worse.”
Could’ve beenmore, I don’t say.
I turn to the garland, tying it off in a messy bow. “We’ve got six more of these to hang before sunset. Let’s just… finish the job.”
He steps back, gives me space.
And for the rest of the afternoon, we work side by side in near silence, stringing up the bones of a celebration neither of us is ready for.
But every time our fingers brush on the twine or he reaches past me for the lantern oil, I feel that kiss we didn’t have hanging between us like smoke in the rafters.
Too close.
But not quite close enough to burn.
CHAPTER 8
DROGATH
It’s well past sunset when I finally step back to look at the lantern string I just secured between the beams of the cider tent. My shoulders ache from the effort—partly from the ladder, mostly from the restraint it’s taking to stay near her and keep my damn hands to myself.
The evening’s wrapped in the kind of autumn chill that seeps into your bones if you’re not moving, but sweat still clings to my neck from hoisting crates and hammering signage for the better part of four hours. And through it all, she’s been here—Tessa Quinn, in her cinnamon-smeared apron and windblown curls, moving like a force of nature that doesn’t realize she’s the entire season distilled into a single, infuriating, irresistible person.
I don’t know how she manages to do it—walk by without touching me and still leave me gutted like I’ve taken a blade to the ribs.
Earlier, she brushed past me on her way to hang cinnamon bundles over the drink table, and I swear the scent has been stitched into my skin ever since. Cinnamon and orange peel and whatever herb she keeps in her pocket that makes her smell like a damn midsummer wish granted too late.
It’s maddening.
She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and pretends otherwise.
Meanwhile, I’m out here carving directional signs for a village that hasn’t needed directions since the age of horse-drawn carts. Just something to keep my hands busy, to keep the hunger out of my gaze.
“Hey, Broodfather,” Tara calls from behind me, her voice all wicked amusement and glittery menace. “You missed a lantern.”
I glance over my shoulder to see her perched on a hay bale like it’s a throne, legs crossed, sipping cider from a copper mug like she’s judging a festival instead of helping build it.
“Top beam,” she says, pointing. “Just left of the sign that saysHarvest Dance & Cider Garden.That one looks lonely.”
“I’ll get it,” I grunt, grabbing another hook and the last lantern from the crate.
As I climb the ladder, I hear her mutter something else under her breath—too quiet for most ears, but I’ve been dealing with elven sass since I was eighteen.
“What was that?” I ask, steadying the ladder against the beam.
“Oh, nothing,” she says with a slow, toothy grin. “Just admiring the way you brood while stringing fairy lights. Very masculine. Very‘tall, dark, and smoldering like overcooked stew.’”
