Page 20 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
Ugh. Infuriating orc.
Even worse? Attractive, helpful, good-with-wood-orc who knows I used to sigh every time he muttered those gravel-edged tribal sayings under his breath like they meant something sacred.
I push that thought deep into my mental compost pile and return to the garlands, looping dried apple slices and velvet ribbon through the arch near the drink booth. I’m halfway up the step stool when I realize I need one more strand, and without thinking, I turn and reach behind me.
A hand meets mine. Large. Warm. Rough calluses brushing my fingers.
We both freeze.
His palm closes gently around the garland—andmy hand—and for the briefest, breathless moment, I forget what I was reaching for in the first place.
My stomach swoops. My fingers tremble. Electricity flares straight up my arm and races down my spine.
And then I drop the garland entirely.
It lands in a pile of hay with a pitifulplop.
“I’ve got it,” I mumble, hopping down too fast and nearly twisting my ankle in the process.
Drogath steps in immediately, steadying me with one hand at my waist. “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Fine. Peachy. Just overly enthusiastic about gravity.”
His lips twitch like he wants to smile, but he doesn’t. He steps back. Gives me space.
I retrieve the garland, brush off a speck of straw, and jab a finger toward the arch. “That one goes there. And yes, I know it’snot symmetrical,but not every decoration has to be aligned like a battle formation.”
“You sure?” he mutters. “Could’ve sworn the goal was harvest joy, not architectural chaos.”
I glare at him, hands on hips. “Youdoknow this is a festival, right? Not a corporate retreat?”
“You’re the one who asked for structure,” he says, voice dry as burnt oak. “I’m just trying to follow orders.”
“You make it sound like I’m leading a militia of pumpkins.”
“You basically are.”
I roll my eyes so hard they might never come back down. “By maple’s mercy, you are impossible.”
And that’s when he mutters it—low, under his breath, rough and fond and cursed with memory.
“By iron’s mercy.”
My head snaps up.
He doesn’t notice at first, still busy securing the garland with a bit of twine. But when I stare too long, he finally glances over and raises a brow.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, too quickly. “It’s just… I haven’t heard you say that in years.”
“Still remember it?”
“Of course I remember it,” I say, voice softer now. “You used to say it every time the kettle boiled over or a goat kicked you.”
He chuckles under his breath. “It’s a good curse. Gets the point across.”
I smile without meaning to, the kind that slips out sideways before you can stop it. “I used to tease you for it.”
