Page 31 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
And maybe soon, I’ll be brave enough to hand it to her.
But tonight, I hold it close to my chest, let the fire burn low, and let the stillness wash through me like something holy.
I’m not just chasing something.
I’m letting myself behere.
And I think I might finally be ready tostay.
CHAPTER 15
TESSA
The first whisper comes from Miss Fenley’s rose-stained lips over the display of Braeburn apples. She leans in close, all hushed reverence and scandal-tinged breath, like she's about to confess a crime or tell me the baker's using margarine again.
“They’re surveying up near the east woods,” she says, tapping her temple like it's a state secret. “Just past the pond trail, you know the one—where the deer cross come dusk. Said it’s a new proposal. Development. Something big.”
I laugh at first—tight and bright and reflexive. “Oh, Miss Fenley. Rumors sprout faster than tulips after frost in this town. Probably just some drainage work.”
But she shakes her head, grave and certain. “No, darling. These weren’t village men. Suits. Clipboards. Company trucks with that Thornhold emblem painted big as pride.”
The Thornhold emblem.
My stomach dips like I missed a step on a staircase IthoughtI knew by heart.
I tuck the bouquet of cinnamon basil tighter into the crook of my elbow and murmur something about needing lemons beforescurrying away from the stall, heart thudding so loud I’m half convinced Bramley’s nephew can hear it from the cider booth.
By the time I reach the shop, I’m pacing. Barefoot. Angry. Anxious. All of it wrapped in a tangle that smells like dried rosemary and impending heartbreak. I haven’t even taken off my coat, and my boots lie abandoned near the threshold like they gave up on me.
I try to focus—there’s wreath orders to fill, bundles to tie, and the cooler’s a disaster from last night’s gala pickup rush—but every time I try to thread twine around a bouquet of dried clove oranges, I hear her voice again.
Company trucks.
Thornhold emblem.
East woods.
I know that stretch of trees. It's barely half a mile from the back fence of my shop’s little garden plot. The wild bit. Untamed. Sacred. I used to sit out there on the overturned crate that still smells like fennel seed and watch the light dapple through those maple leaves, humming nonsense songs and dreaming of greenhouses and forever.
Ifhe—if Drogath—is touching that land, even with good intentions, even with hisendlessresources and maddening, earnest eyes—I need to know. Ideserveto know.
Because I won’t let him make a liar out of the man he’s been lately.
I don’t storm the lumber yard or show up at the inn swinging accusations like a broom at a raccoon. I wait. I wait until the weekly garden co-op meeting lets out, and he’s walking past Maple & Mallow with a carved box under one arm and his collar turned against the wind like he doesn’t feel the cold anymore.
“Tessa,” he says, warm and low, eyes crinkling like I’m something soft he wants to hold.
I don’t soften.
“You’ve got crews in the east woods?”
He stills, just slightly. Enough to tell me I’m not imagining it.
“Just preliminary,” he says. Calm. Measured.Cautious.“Nothing’s finalized.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His jaw flexes, just once, but his voice stays quiet. “I didn’t want to say anything until I had something solid. No need to stir up panic over paperwork.”
