Page 13 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

MADDIE

I wake up to the soft thunk of something landing on my front step—a little bundle tied up in twine that’s quickly revealed to be the latest issue of the Harvest Hollow Whistle.

It’s probably dripping with all the usual local gossip: who’s courting who, which family of sprites is squabbling over garden plots, what suspicious new tonic the dwarf apothecary is peddling to “make your beard grow twice as fast.”

Except today, when I unravel the twine and open it, my breath catches right at the top of the first page.

There we are.

Me and Thornak, smack in the center of a grainy but somehow still charming ink-pressed photograph, standing under the lanterns at the last orchard dinner.

I’m caught mid-laugh, leaning slightly into him, and he’s looking down at me with this expression—rough, almost shy, like he’s still not sure how he ended up there.

His hand’s resting lightly on my waist, as if he’s trying not to hold too tight.

Scrawled above it in bold curly script:

“Harvest Hollow’s Cutest Couple! Orchard Heiress and Her Gentle Giant Promise the Sweetest Autumn Yet!”

A startled laugh pops right out of me, loud enough to send a startled robin darting from the porch railing. “Oh Thornak, you’re going to absolutely?—”

I pause. Because speaking of grumpy forest giants, there he is, ambling up the path with a crate balanced on one shoulder.

He’s wearing that dark green flannel I gave him, the sleeves rolled up over his thick forearms, and he looks so ridiculously good it makes my brain skip like a scratched record.

I dash down the steps, waving the paper over my head. “You have got to see this!”

He eyes the paper warily, tusks flexing. “What’s got you squealing like a startled fox this time?”

“Oh just a little local fame, no big deal. We’ve apparently been declared the cutest couple in all of Harvest Hollow. Officially. By journalistic decree.” I thrust the paper under his nose, jabbing at the headline with my finger.

He takes it gingerly, squints down at the page, then lets out this low, rumbling sound that I think is meant to be annoyed but mostly sounds like he’s fighting not to smile. “Load of nonsense,” he mutters, though his ears have turned distinctly dark at the tips.

“Oh absolutely,” I agree with an exaggerated nod. “Total nonsense. I mean, who’d look at you in that perfectly fitted shirt, all broad shoulders and forest mystique, and think handsome future husband material? Completely absurd.”

“Keep it up and I’ll dump you in the watering trough,” he growls, but the corners of his mouth twitch.

Because I’m nosy—I peek over his arm to see where he’s tucked the paper. He’s half-hidden it in the crate of orchard tools, carefully folded, like he’s planning to keep it. My heart does a foolish little somersault.

Later that afternoon, we hole up in my bakery kitchen to “test cake flavors for the fake wedding.” Which is really just an excuse for me to fuss around with batter and icing while Thornak pretends he’s only here to ensure the structural integrity of my counters under all the heavy mixing bowls.

I’m elbow-deep in a creamy maple butter frosting, humming under my breath, while he leans against the far table like he’s trying to merge with the wood.

His arms are crossed, muscles bunching under that flannel in a way that’s downright criminal, eyes following my every move with this lazy, half-lidded attention that makes my stomach flutter.

“Alright, big guy,” I say, scooping up a generous dollop on my finger, “taste test time. I want absolute honesty. If it’s too sweet, or too… I dunno, floral, I need to know before I frost three whole tiers of it.”

He shifts, brow furrowing. “Don’t know how you expect me to be delicate about it. I’ll eat damned near anything that doesn’t bite back.”

“Charming. But try anyway.”

I step close—probably closer than necessary—reach up, and smear a little swipe right across the bridge of his nose. The frosting stands out stark and pale on his green skin. I clap a hand to my mouth to smother the giggle threatening to explode.

“Maddie…” he rumbles, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.

“What?” I squeak, laughter bubbling up anyway. “You look very distinguished. Like a noble orc lord sampling foreign delicacies at court.”

“You’re gonna regret that,” he growls, lunging forward.

I shriek and twist away, but he’s too quick.

One massive hand snakes around my waist, hauling me flush against his chest. My breath stutters—half from the sudden closeness, half from the warm, firm press of him everywhere.

His tusks brush my temple as he ducks low, growling something that’s almost a laugh.

In a move that’s entirely unfair, he swipes his own icing-smeared finger right across my cheek.

“Thornak!” I gasp, batting at his arm.

“Reckless woman. You started it.”

We’re both laughing now, faces so close I can feel his breath ghost over my mouth.

The bakery seems to shrink around us, the warm cinnamon-sugar air curling tight like a cocoon.

My hand is still on his chest, clutching a fistful of his flannel, and his fingers have slid just under the hem of my blouse, rough knuckles brushing bare skin in a way that sends a sharp, dizzy shiver through me.

For a heartbeat, everything stills. His eyes drop to my lips, dark and intent, and my pulse skips so hard it nearly hurts.

But then I let out a nervous giggle—too bright, too high—and the moment cracks. He steps back like the floor’s shifted under him, clears his throat with a rough, embarrassed little huff.

I quickly busy myself wiping icing off my cheek, heart still racing, trying not to let him see how badly my hands shake.

When he finally leaves, the bakery feels too quiet, the lingering scent of him—cedar and sawdust and something warm, distinctly him —clinging to my apron like a secret.

I clean up slow, replaying the feel of his hand on my waist, the look in his eyes right before he pulled back. By the time I lock up and head upstairs to my little attic room, I’m hopelessly tangled in thoughts I probably shouldn’t be entertaining.

Thoughts of his hands not stopping at my waist. Of that gruff voice murmuring my name low and close. Of what it would feel like to lean in fully, finally, and taste him for real.

I sigh, flop back on my bed, and stare at the wooden ceiling beams until they blur.

“This was supposed to be fake,” I whisper to no one at all.

But stars above, the way my heart’s tripping all over itself, the way I can’t stop smiling even when it aches—there’s not a thing about this that feels pretend anymore.