Page 7 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

MADDIE

I wake up practically vibrating with nervous energy, bouncing on my toes as I mix up a fresh batch of pastry dough. I’m humming some silly little tune that isn’t even a real song, just notes strung together to keep my thoughts from spiraling into a big knotted mess of what ifs.

Because today’s the pumpkin patch festival. Our first official “public outing.” Or, you know, our first fake date, depending on how you want to spin it—though if I start calling it that out loud, I’m pretty sure Thornak will break into hives.

I finish rolling out a sheet of dough and stare at it like it’s going to give me life advice.

“Alright, Maddie Quinn. You’re about to drag the grumpiest, biggest orc this side of the Gray Peaks to a festival full of nosy neighbors, overeager children, and piping hot gossip.

You’ve survived worse. Probably. Right?”

The dough doesn’t answer. Typical.

By late morning, the orchard’s a swirl of autumn gold and burnt orange, leaves drifting lazily through the air like confetti.

Tents line the edge of the field, each one bursting with bright quilts, jars of spiced preserves, woven baskets, and little trinkets carved from gnarled apple wood.

The air smells like roasted chestnuts, cinnamon, and woodsmoke.

I’ve got my own stall set up with three kinds of orchard-themed pies—classic apple with caramel drizzle, pumpkin-pecan with a sugared crust, and a brand new concoction: pear, ginger, and brown butter.

I arrange them all on delicate wooden stands, then step back, hands on hips, admiring my little corner of edible heaven.

“Try to look casual,” I mutter to myself, spotting Thornak’s broad silhouette weaving between booths. “Don’t scare him off by squealing like you’ve won the harvest lottery.”

Of course, the second he reaches my stall, I absolutely beam at him anyway.

He’s cleaned up a little—hair tied back tighter than usual, shirt brushed off, though there’s still a stubborn bit of sawdust clinging to his sleeve. He stands there awkwardly, massive hands dangling at his sides, tusks catching the light.

“You came!” I chirp, like I’m surprised, even though he said he would.

“Didn’t want your scheming elf friend accusing me of runnin’ off,” he grumbles, eyes darting everywhere but my face.

“That’s extremely valid,” I say, grinning. “Also, hi. Welcome to your first pumpkin patch festival as my… uh… betrothed. Sort of. Temporarily.”

He grunts something that might be “stars above help me,” but I pretend not to hear it.

A cluster of local kids goes scampering by, shrieking with laughter, and two of them stop dead when they spot Thornak looming next to my pie table.

One little girl with her hair in twin braids tugs her friend’s sleeve and whispers—loud enough for all of us to hear—“Is that a real orc or just a costume?”

Thornak stiffens like he’s bracing for a blow.

I lean over, stage-whispering back, “He’s very real, and he’s got a terrible weakness for caramel apple tarts. Totally harmless unless you’re a pie.”

The kids giggle so hard they nearly trip over each other running off, and when I glance up, I catch Thornak fighting the ghost of a grin.

“Don’t start,” he mutters.

“I didn’t say a word,” I sing, even though my whole face feels like it might crack in half from smiling.

I decide to push my luck. I pick up a little fork loaded with a piece of pumpkin-pecan pie, holding it out toward him with a hopeful wiggle. “Here. Just try it. I swear it’ll make the entire ordeal worth it.”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t feed me like some pampered house cat.”

“Oh come on, it’s a festival. Live a little.” I lean closer, batting my eyelashes in the most absurd exaggerated way, which earns me a flat, resigned look.

After what feels like an entire season—he huffs, bends down, and carefully takes the bite straight off the fork. His tusks brush my knuckles on accident, warm breath ghosting over my skin. The sudden contact sends a fizz of heat shooting up my arm and landing somewhere decidedly inconvenient.

I have to swallow hard, voice a squeaky little mess when I finally squeak out, “Good, right?”

Thornak chews with exaggerated slowness. Then grunts, “Could be worse.”

“Oh don’t you even pretend,” I scold, smacking his arm with the back of my hand. “That’s the face of a man whose life was just changed by brown sugar and roasted pecans.”

His rumbling snort says otherwise, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, which I’m tentatively choosing to file under progress.

We wander the festival together, me pointing out all my favorite little stalls—Mrs. Penwhistle’s embroidery, the dwarven cider press, the gnome-run honey tasting. Every time I get close, Thornak tenses up like he’s bracing for me to fling myself bodily into his arms.

“Relax,” I tease, bumping his elbow. “We’re supposed to look like a couple. You can handle that for an afternoon, can’t you?”

“Not the problem,” he mutters.

“Then what is?”

His eyes dart to a pair of older human women watching us from behind a stack of knitted scarves, whispering behind their hands with barely contained delight.

“Those hens are plotting our wedding colors already. Bet one’s halfway done knitting a matching pair of bloody mittens.”

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing so hard I nearly drop my cider cup.

Eventually we make our way to the corn maze on the far end of the field, which is towering and sprawling and lined with fluttering little orange flags. The maze entrance is crowded, all chatter and giggles and someone’s lute music drifting on the breeze.

“You sure about this?” Thornak rumbles, eyeing the maze like it’s personally offended him.

“What, scared of a few stalks of corn?” I tease.

“Scared of you gettin’ lost in there and me havin’ to listen to your shrieking all the way to the Gray Peaks.”

“Oh hush. Come on.”

Inside the maze, it’s quieter, the walls of green closing around us, lit only by little lanterns strung overhead that sway when the wind picks up.

The path crunches underfoot. I walk ahead a bit, chattering about how the local teenagers always try to sneak kisses in here after dark, waving my hands around like I’m painting the whole story on air.

Then I trip over an exposed root, stumble sideways, and my hand shoots out—right into Thornak’s.

He stiffens immediately, muscles locking up so hard it’s like grabbing a warm stone wall. I freeze too, heart skipping like it’s forgotten how to keep a steady beat. For a second neither of us moves, just stand there tangled together, my smaller hand swallowed in his huge palm.

His thumb brushes over my knuckles, almost like he’s testing the texture of me, and that tiny, accidental touch sends a wild flutter racing up my spine.

I try to laugh it off. “Wow. Um. Good reflexes there. I—uh—probably would’ve face-planted again if not for you.”

“Figured I’d save the pie table from bein’ short a baker,” he mutters, voice low and rough.

“Very heroic of you,” I say, but it comes out breathless.

We stay like that a moment longer than strictly necessary—hand in hand, corn rustling around us, lanterns swinging overhead. Then he clears his throat, lets go, and scowls off down the next path like it insulted his grandmother.

I follow him, heart fluttering wildly, trying to hide the silly grin stretching across my face.

Because maybe this fake engagement is going to be more complicated than either of us planned. And maybe I’m entirely, recklessly okay with that.