Page 3 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
Ishouldn’t have come in that way. Just… stepped through the door like a man who hadn’t shattered everything that mattered. Like I hadn’t left her behind on a porch lit with cider lanterns and promises I never kept.
But gods, the scent.
The second I opened the door toMaple & Mallow, it hit me like a punch to the ribs—rosemary, dried orange peel, a thread of clove beneath it all, the kind of scent that wraps itself around your spine and drags you back through time whether you like it or not. My hands curled tight around the edge of the door before I even saw her.
And then she turned.
And I forgot how to breathe.
Tessa Quinn.
She’s smaller than I remember, but somehow... larger too. More certain. More rooted. Her curls are wilder than ever, catching bits of autumn like the leaves are in love with her too. That old apron’s still looped around her waist, pockets stuffed with scissors and twine and gods knows what else, and her cheeks are flushed the way they used to be after an argument or a particularly good kiss.
She looked right at me—and I swear the air crackled.
And yet she still managed to smile like she was talking to the village taxman. All polite frost and cool sunshine, like I hadn’t once touched every inch of her in the dark.
I didn’t say what I wanted to. Didn’t tell her I’ve had the deed to this shop buried in a locked drawer for years, warded with old magic and blood-sealed contracts so no one could ever touch it. Didn’t tell her I read the quarterly village reports just to make sure her taxes were paid. Didn’t say I’ve seen the way her business has grown, from a little stall near the cider press to this—this golden sanctuary.
No.
I said, “Still talking to your plants?” like a damned fool.
And she wielded her words like a blade wrapped in honey, and I stood there and bled for it.
Now I’m walking away from the shop, down the winding path through town, and I’m burning under this wool coat like it’s fire-branded with every look she just gave me. I don’t belong here. I never did. This town is all hand-knit scarves and porch swings and old men whittling on benches while the world spins slower. And me? I’m steel towers and ruthless contracts. But Icould’vebelonged—if I’d stayed. If I’d been braver.
If I hadn’t left her.
I pass Bramley Grigs’ cider orchard, the wind shaking amber leaves from the branches above. He’s standing near a barrel stack, arms crossed, squinting at me like he knows exactly who I am and what I did.
He does.
“Thought the ground trembled,” he says. “Should’ve known it was you.”
“Good to see you too, Bramley,” I grunt, nodding once. I don’t stop walking.
“You here to pave over the ridge or just break another heart?”
I pause.
“Not paving anything,” I say, voice tight. “Not here.”
He lets out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “You’ve got the shoulders of a builder and the eyes of a man who’s already regretting his own shadow.”
“You always this poetic?”
“Only when ghosts come home in expensive boots.”
I don’t rise to it. I can’t. Because he’s not wrong.
I leave the orchard behind, boots crunching over gravel and fallen leaves, and make my way to the old inn I’ve rented out for the season—“just business,” I told the clerk, though the look she gave me said she didn’t buy a word of it.Maple Hollow doesn’t forget, and it sure as hell doesn’t forgive without a damn good reason.
I climb the creaking staircase to the suite I had restored last week—new floorboards, reinforced beams, and a desk that’s already stacked with architectural renderings. Therealplans are rolled up in a leather tube by the window—ones no one’s seen but me and Emrik, my chief of operations.
Plans that include a glass conservatory behind Maple & Mallow, tucked among a garden that blooms even in winter. Plans I drew myself at two in the morning after a boardroom meeting in Caldrith Keep, whiskey in one hand and the memory of her fingers trailing across a sketchpad in the other.
I toss my coat onto the old rocking chair, unbutton my cuffs, and rub my neck with one hand. My other drifts automatically to the silver-dented pocket watch in my vest. Mother’s. I keep it close whenever I feel like I’m on the verge of either conquest or collapse.
