Page 6 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
“I’m warning you now.”
I stomp toward the barn like a woman on a mission and swing open the door, prepared to unleash a hurricane of pointed sarcasm.
And there he is.
Drogath Thornhold. All six-foot-seven of storm cloud wrapped in wool, standing beside a stack of firewood and wiping his hands on a rag like hebelongshere. Like he’s always belonged. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing the dark striations along his forearms, tribal markings I used to trace with lazy fingers under firelight. His tusks flash when he sees me, and my stomach lurches with something traitorous and molten.
“Tessa,” he says, like my name’s a tether.
“What, stalking me through orchards now?”
He actually has the nerve to look amused. “I work fast.”
“Congratulations. You’ll be bored by Wednesday.”
“Unlikely.”
I fold my arms, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “I don’t need your help.”
“Didn’t come to help you.”
“Oh, good.”
“I came to help Bramley.”
My lips purse. “Of course.”
He watches me for a beat, then says quietly, “Can’t say I hate seeing you out here, though.”
I refuse to let the compliment settle. I spin on my heel. “If you’re staying, don’t touch the Northern baskets. They’re reserved for cider prep.”
“Aye, boss.”
And damn him, he smiles like he means it.
By the time I’m back at the shop, the wind has kicked up and the smell of oncoming rain threads through the air. I’ve justfinished dragging in the crates when I see the town council flyer fluttering on the door.
I tug it loose and read.
“Harvest Gala Co-Hosts: Tessa Quinn & Drogath Thornhold.”
My mouth goes dry. I read it again.
And again.
And then I scream into the nearest pumpkin.
Tara pops her head out of the back. “So… good news?”
I brandish the flyer like it’s cursed. “Whatidiotdecided I should be co-hosting atown-wide eventwith that orc?”
She smirks. “Pretty sure it was unanimous.”
“I didn’t evenvolunteer!”
“Oh, sweetie.” Tara walks over, pats me on the head like a long-suffering child. “You’re Maple Hollow’s favorite cinnamon stick. You werealwaysgoing to be picked. And now the universe is giving you an opportunity.”
“An opportunity to spontaneously combust from rage?”
