Page 2 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
I fold my arms, try not to notice how much taller he still is. How much bigger. How much I still want to reach up andsmooth that silver-dusted beard with my fingers and press my face into the hollow of his throat like it’s still mine.
“You look good, Tessa,” he says, low and deliberate.
I don’t flinch. Don’t preen either. “You look like a real estate brochure had a very successful baby with a war god.”
That makes him laugh—just once. A rumble. Rich. Brief. But it hits me square in the chest.
“What do you want, Drogath?”
His smile fades.
“I’m overseeing a new project. Up on the ridge. A retreat development. I’ll be in town for a while.”
“Lovely. Maybe you can squeeze in the Harvest Gala between flattening forests.”
“I already volunteered.”
“You what?”
“For the Gala. Bramley Grigs said they needed hands. I figured mine were big enough to count for two.”
“Since when do you care about the Gala?”
He hesitates.
Sinceyou, I think, but he doesn’t say it.
“I like what it stands for,” he says instead. “Community. Preservation.”
I snort, then immediately regret it, because it’s too familiar, toous. “Right. Mr. Preservation. Tell that to the hundred-year-old maple grove you bulldozed in Springhaven.”
He bristles. Just slightly. Good. Let him feel something.
“Maple Hollow’s not Springhaven.”
“No,” I say softly. “It’s not.”
The silence between us stretches, filled with the hum of the old record player and the rustle of dried leaves tapping at the windows. I reach down to untangle a strand of jute from around my wrist, fingers trembling just slightly. He notices. Of course he does. He always saw more than I wanted him to.
He steps back, finally. Just enough to let me breathe again. I want to hate the way the air feels colder without him standing so close.
“I’ll be seeing you, Tessa,” he says, voice rough around the edges now.
“You already have.”
The bell rings when he leaves. I don’t look up. Not until the door’s fully shut and the echo of his presence fades into the cinnamon-thick air. Only then do I let myself sink onto the stool behind the counter, one hand buried in the folds of my apron, fingers curled tight around the small sachet of dried lavender I always keep in the pocket.
The little tin in the back room still holds the carved acorn he gave me the day he left. I haven’t opened it in years. But right now, I can feel its shape in my memory like it never left my hand.
“By maple’s mercy,” I whisper, heart pounding loud enough to scare the petals.
He’s back.
And I am so, so not ready.
CHAPTER 2
DROGATH
