Page 5 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
“I heard he’s got a private sauna in his suite.”
Tara.
I don’t look up. Just keep trimming the edges off a new wreath, blades snipping with more force than necessary. “Good morning to you, too.”
She flounces in like a breeze in silk, her braids threaded with tiny brass leaves, ears flicking with mischief. Tara Windwhistle has never once entered a room quietly, nor has she ever whispered gossip in anything less than a theatrical stage whisper.
“I said good morning to the pie I stole off your counter,” she says breezily, tapping one of the seed sachets with a manicured finger. “And before you ask, yes, it was delicious, and no, I feel no remorse. Now tell me—how does it feel knowing your ex is wandering around town looking like a romance novel with anger management issues?”
I sigh. “Like I want to throw a flower pot at someone.”
“Just nothim.”
“Don’t.”
“Oh, I’msogoing to.” She leans across the counter, voice dropping to a teasing lilt. “He still looks at you like you’re the last warm cider on a cold night, Tess.”
“He looks like he’s assessing the structural integrity of my building,” I snap. “Which, frankly, he probably is.”
“You’re adorable when you lie.”
I shoot her a glare, but she just grins wider. “You’re not helpful.”
“I’m not trying to be helpful. I’m trying to get you laid.”
I groan. “Tara!”
“What? It’s aservice.”
“You know what would really help? If he left. Again. For good this time.”
She sobers slightly. “Do you really want that?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is tangled and thorny, and saying it aloud would make it too damn real.
Instead, I say, “I’m going to the orchard. Bramley needs help bundling spice apples.”
“I’ll cover the shop. Try not to get seduced by a cider barrel.”
I mutter something unladylike and escape into the crisp afternoon.
Bramley is already outside when I get to the orchard, sleeves rolled and beard bristling as he hoists crates of apples into a cart. His thick arms strain a little more than they used to, but he still moves like a mountain that doesn’t take orders from time.
“Morning,” I call, lifting my scarf against the wind.
He grunts in acknowledgment, then jerks his chin toward the side barn.
“He’s in there.”
Oh no. “Who?”
Bramley raises a bushy brow.
“You lethimnear your apple carts?”
“He moved three barrels without breaking a sweat and fixed the wagon wheel that’s been crooked since Yule. I’m not a fool, girl. Big orc wants to play farmhand, I say let him.”
I scowl. “You should’ve warned me.”
