Page 27 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
And then I step back.
Because restraint matters. And if I’ve learnedanything—it's that showing up doesn’t mean taking over.
The gala is already humming by the time I get there that evening, and gods, if Maple Hollow doesn’t know how to throw a party.
Lanterns strung from tree to tree glow like trapped starlight, casting golden halos over every face. The smell of mulled cider and roasted chestnuts fills the air, and music from the fiddlers near the barn ripples through the clearing like a spell.
And then I see her.
Tessa Quinn, in a moss-green dress that hugs her like it was stitched by fae hands, her curls pinned up with little copper leaves that gleam under the lantern light. She moves through the crowd with a laugh in her throat, one hand always touching—elbows, shoulders, arms—like sheknowspeople. Like she belongs to them, and they to her.
I keep my distance.
Because tonight, she needs space. Not weight.
I speak to Bramley, toast with Tara, and spend too long answering Miss Fenley’s questions about my favorite pickling methods—apparently a test of moral fiber in these parts. But always, always, my eyes drift back to her.
She dances once. With Bramley’s grand-nephew, of all people—a gangly, red-cheeked lad who grins like he just caught the moon in his hands.
I don’t move. Not even when the boy spins her and she laughs so hard she presses a hand to her ribs.
But my fingers twitch.
I want to touch her. Gods, do I want it. Want to press my hand to the small of her back, feel her spine lean into me like it used to. Want to hold her like the world narrows down to two heartbeats and the ground beneath our feet.
But I don’t.
Because tonight is hers.
And if I’m lucky—if I’mpatient—there might come a night where she walks to me instead of away.
Until then, I will stand in the firelight and watch her glow.
And if the ache in my chest gets worse with every song, so be it.
She’s worth burning for.
CHAPTER 13
TESSA
They say the Harvest Gala was the best we’ve had in years.
Miss Fenley wept into her lace gloves during the lantern lighting. Bramley claimed the cider was “damn near holy.” Even Tara—who once described the gala as “a slow-burning disaster with a dress code”—couldn’t stop grinning as the bonfire roared and children ran around with apple slices on sticks like they were carrying sacred relics.
The whole town glowed.
And so did I. But not because of the twinkle lights or the cinnamon candles or the four dozen wreaths I hung from every available surface. I glowed because Drogath Thornhold touched the small of my back as he guided me through the crowd, and my heart hasn’t quite recovered since.
It wasn’t even a grand gesture. Not a sweeping kiss or a scandalous declaration or one of those whispered, melt-your-knees confessions I sometimes read about when the bookshop gets a new batch of smutty romance novellas. No. It was his hand. Just there. Just… steady. Warm. Grounding.
We barely spoke all evening.
And yet I could feel his gaze on me like firelight, constant and quiet and burning just the same.
He didn’t cling. Didn’t crowd me. He stood back while I danced with Bramley’s nephew, nodded politely as I flitted from conversation to conversation like a woman held together by cinnamon sticks and to-do lists.
But when he left early, I felt it.
