Page 14 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
Ada blinks. “Did something happen?”
“Nope!” I say, flipping open my notebook like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Everything’sjust fine.”
Across the room, Drogath grunts.
I don’t look at him.
Planning the Harvest Gala is normally one of my favorite events of the year—bundles of mums at every table, families dancing under string lights, the smell of warm cider and rain-damp hay. This year? This year it feels like being asked to arrange autumn leaves with a bear looming over my shoulder, muttering about logistical efficiency.
“Centerpieces should be symmetrical,” Drogath says, tapping a drawing I made of staggered floral bundles. “The tables are uniform. The décor should reflect that.”
I arch a brow. “Thegalais not a war conference. It's a festival, not a summit. The asymmetry is part of the charm.”
He folds his arms. “The charm is in the function. If the tables don’t match, the servers will lose track of which ones need cider refills.”
“Then we train better servers.”
He levels a look at me that saysI’ve negotiated mergers in boardrooms where the wallpaper cost more than this entire town.
“Well, Thornhold,” I say sweetly, “this isn’t a conference center. This is Maple Hollow. We do things with personality.”
“Your personality just threw out a perfectly balanced lighting schematic.”
“And your lighting schematic looked like the floor plan for a prison riot.”
Bramley coughs into his cider.
I press on. “And another thing, these linen samples arenotall beige. This one is pumpkin cream.”
“That’s beige.”
“It’s festive.”
“It’s bland.”
“It’s nostalgic.”
“It’s boring.”
“You’reboring!”
The room goes still.
I realize I’m standing now, cheeks flushed, hands clenched on the edge of the table.
Drogath’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “You always did argue like you were ready to throw the table.”
I breathe out through my nose. “And you always argued like you were issuing a ceasefire agreement after a hostile acquisition.”
“You always made it worth the fight.”
And just like that, the air shifts.
My heartbeat stutters. I don’t mean for it to. I hate that it does. But the way he says it—quiet, low, just for me—makes the room blur around the edges. I should say something snarky. Deflect. Keep control.
Instead, I sit back down. Hard.
Bramley scratches behind his ear and mutters, “Remind me to charge double for cider this year. Gonna need it.”
