Page 41 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
Tessa’s late.
Not that I blame her. If the roles were reversed, I’d probably be halfway to the southern border by now with a sack of apples and a bad attitude. But I also know her. She’ll come. She always does when it matters. And this—this damn well matters.
I roll my shoulders once, crack the tension from my neck, and step up onto the flat stone Bramley cleared for me this morning. It’s not much—a natural rise above the slope, just enough to look the crowd in the eye—but it feels heavier than any boardroom podium I’ve ever stood behind. Heavier than the weight of the contracts still burning a hole in my satchel.
I clear my throat, low and deliberate, and the crowd hushes just enough that I can hear my own breath in the pause.
“I built Thornhold Enterprises from nothing,” I begin, voice steady but firm, like I’m anchoring myself with the words. “No inheritance. No noble name. Just blood, grit, and a hell of a lot of hard choices.”
Someone near the front—probably Mrs. Fenley—mutters something likethat’s an understatement,and I don’t even try to hide the twitch of a smirk.
“But there are some things money can’t build,” I go on, slower now, more measured. “Things no ledger can price. And one of those things is standing all around us—this ridge, this forest, this village.”
A few murmurs rise in agreement, but mostly people just shift, eyes narrowing, waiting to hear the catch. They’re smart to expect it. Hell, if I were them, I’d assume the same—another polished pitch, another developer cloaked in good intentions with profit tucked in his back pocket.
But I didn’t come here to sell anything. I came here to give something up.
I reach into my coat, pull out the folder—the thick one, the one stamped with seals and clauses and the kind of red tape that takes a whole legal team to untangle. The crowd stirs when they see it.
“These,” I say, holding the folder up, “are the contracts. Multi-year development deals, tourism zoning permits, investoragreements… all of it. Everything tied to the Thornhold Ridge Project.”
Someone whistles low. A few people lean forward.
“I’m dissolving them.”
The words land like a dropped axe.
The murmurs rise again—louder this time. Confused. Disbelieving. Ewan Larkspur shouts something about “infrastructure potential” from the back. Ada gasps like I just admitted to lighting the bakery on fire.
“I know what that sounds like,” I add before anyone can interrupt me. “I know it’s shocking. But I didn’t come here to pave paradise. I came to preserve it. And not just because it’s beautiful. Not just because it matters to the ecosystem or tourism.”
I take a breath, let it settle low in my chest before I let the next words free.
“I came because this village shaped the woman I love. And I’ll protect it until my last breath.”
The silence that follows isn’t hollow—it’s weighty, thick with stunned air and the way a community holds its collective breath when they’re not sure if they just witnessed a declaration or a breakdown.
I keep my gaze on the horizon, but I can feel the shift like wind against my skin.
They’re not looking at me anymore.
They’re looking for her.
And she’s there.
Gods, she’s there.
Walking up the ridge path with her curls catching every last drop of sunlight, her skirt brushing the dry grass like she’s part of the landscape itself, and her face—open, flushed, not angry or panicked or retreating—but calm. Intentional.
She moves through the crowd like a breeze made flesh, not pushing, not forcing, just flowing until she’s right beside me. Not behind. Not in front. Beside.
She reaches out—her fingers brushing mine first, then lacing. Public. Unflinching.
And then she looks at me, all soft and sharp and impossible, and says, “I’m ready.”
It doesn’t hit me like a thunderclap.
It hits me like a sunrise.
