Page 26 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc (Monsters of Saltford Bay #1)

Chapter Twenty-One

Gerralt

The festival is a riot of autumn sensations assaulting my senses—bright-orange banners stretch between vendor stalls, the scent of mulled cider and roasted chestnuts thick in the air. The cobblestone streets are packed with people, their laughter and chatter pressing in from all sides.

I already regret agreeing to this.

Cassidy, on the other hand, is in her element.

She moves through the crowd with an ease I can’t fathom, waving at townsfolk she barely knows, chatting with vendors like she’s lived here her whole life.

She stops to exchange a few words with Mr. Pierce, the elderly goblin from the parks department, who beams at her from behind a table stacked with handmade birdhouses.

A few steps later, she’s laughing at something Mathilda says while pressing a warm cinnamon roll into her hands.

Bernice’s herbal stall is tucked between a bakery stand and a woman selling hand-woven scarves. The table is lined with neatly labeled jars of dried herbs, bundles of lavender, tiny bottles of tinctures. Cassidy gasps when she sees it.

“This is beautiful ,” she says, running her hands over a bundle of rosemary. “I love how you’ve arranged everything.”

Bernice preens, smoothing her apron with a pleased little hum. “Presentation is half the work.”

“And the other half?” I ask gruffly, more out of habit than anything else.

She smirks and hands me a coin pouch. “Counting sales.”

I grunt but pocket the pouch without complaint. If I have to be here, I might as well be useful.

Cassidy jumps right in like she belongs here. Within minutes, she’s chatting with customers, asking Bernice questions about different herbs, her enthusiasm bright as summer sunlight. I focus on sorting dried chamomile, organizing coinage, keeping my head down.

Or at least I try.

Because I see her.

The way she leans in when an elderly gnome woman asks about balm for aching joints, her hands fluttering as she recounts an old family remedy she once read about.

The way she tilts her head, listening intently to Bernice as she explains the properties of yarrow, her hazel eyes thoughtful.

And the way she beams when a little girl tugs at her sleeve, pointing to a bundle of lavender with shy, pleading eyes.

“Oh, this one’s a favorite of mine,” Cassidy coos, crouching to the child’s level. “Smell that? It’s lovely, isn't it?”

The girl nods solemnly, tiny fingers brushing the fragrant sprigs. “Mama says it helps me sleep.”

“She’s absolutely right.” Cassidy grins, then glances toward the harried mother rifling through her coin pouch. “Tell you what, we have a special deal today. One bundle in exchange for a high five.”

The girl’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Really.”

A tentative little hand meets hers with a sharp clap , and Cassidy laughs like it’s the best trade she’s ever made. The mother starts to protest, but Bernice waves her off with a wink. “Consider it a loyalty discount.”

The mother flushes with gratitude, tucking the lavender into her basket. The little girl clutches Cassidy’s hand in thanks before skipping off.

And me?

I just stand there, watching.

Watching the way Cassidy’s presence shifts the rhythm of the market stall, the way her laughter weaves into the late-morning bustle like spun gold. Watching the way people soften around her, like they’ve known her forever.

It’s disarming.

And something else entirely. Something dangerous, something I don’t want to name .

By evening, lanterns glow along the streets, casting everything in warm light. The festival has only grown louder, the energy more chaotic, the scent of sugar and roasting meat twining through the crisp night air.

Bernice shoos us away from the stall with a playful wave of her hand. “Go enjoy yourselves. I can handle the rest.”

Cassidy doesn’t hesitate. She laces her fingers around my wrist, her touch light but insistent. “Come on, let’s explore before everything shuts down.”

I could argue. I should, seeing how she's already so tired her eyelids are almost closing whenever she stands still for more than a minute. But I don’t. Because I want to see Cassidy laugh and smile some more, like a moth wants to get close to a flame.

Her happiness is like the sun, burning and illuminating my life in equal amounts. It's so bright, it hurts to look at it directly.

Because the part of me that knows she's my mate also knows that deep down, I don't deserve her. I don't deserve to have the sun hanging at my arm and laughing at my stupid jokes or pressing kisses to my cheeks every few feet.

And yet I do.

She tugs me through the crowd, her auburn hair catching the glow of festival lights between the stalls and game stands.

I find myself following without resistance, drawn in by her excitement.

We weave past booths selling candied apples and caramel-drizzled popcorn, the scents tugging at something nostalgic in my chest.

As a boy, I used to love going to the Harvest Festival with my parents and grandparents.

It's been years since I stepped foot in the town's celebration, but as I step in to pay for our special treat, all those memories come back rushing at me.

For once, I don't feel like running back to my workshop.

It's like being with Cassidy is breathing life back into me.

Before I can think too hard about it, Cassidy presses a fried dough pastry into my free hand, grinning up at me.

“Eat,” she instructs, taking a huge bite of her own. “It’s not a festival until you’ve had at least one of these.”

I take a cautious bite, sugar dusting my lips. The crisp outer layer cracks beneath my teeth, giving way to warm, doughy sweetness, a reminder of childhood, of simpler times. Cassidy watches me expectantly, eyes twinkling.

“Good, right?”

I grunt, too distracted by the taste to form words. She laughs and loops her arm through mine, steering me toward a row of carnival games.

We stop in front of a booth lined with colorful stuffed animals, a ring toss game run by an elderly gnome with spectacles perched at the very tip of his nose.

A small child, a goblin girl with wide, watery eyes, clutches her father’s hand nearby, her lower lip wobbling as the booth operator sweeps away her last ring.

“Almost had it, sprout,” her father assures her, ruffling her tangled black hair. “Maybe next time.”

Cassidy nudges me. “Think you can win?”

I roll my shoulders, eyeing the stacked bottles. “Easy.”

Cassidy snorts. “Bold words. Let’s see what you can do.”

I hand over a few coins and take my place at the line. The rings are light in my hand, too flimsy for a proper throw, but I adjust my grip and let my instincts guide me. One throw. Two. The third ring lands squarely around the bottle’s neck.

The gnome operator of the game claps, tipping his hat before shouting loudly, “We have a winner!”

Cassidy cheers, and for the first time tonight, I feel something loosen in my chest. Maybe it’s the casual warmth of the festival, or maybe it’s her infectious joy seeping into my bones. The booth operator gestures toward the hanging prizes, but before I can select one, Cassidy points.

“That one,” she says, and I follow her gaze to a ridiculous stuffed sea otter with an oversized head and tiny, flippered paws.

I grab the plush prize and turn to Cassidy, expecting her to clutch it against her chest in triumph. Instead, she kneels beside the goblin girl, offering the toy with both hands.

“Here. I think this little otter belongs to you.”

The child’s green eyes widen as she looks up at her father for permission. When the man nods, she slowly, reverently, takes the stuffed animal from Cassidy’s hands.

“Thank you,” she whispers, hugging the otter tight.

Cassidy beams. “He looks happier with you already.”

The father shoots me an appreciative glance. “That was kind of you both.”

I clear my throat, scratching the back of my neck. “I'm sure the little sprout will put it to good use.”

Cassidy gives me another blinding smile, then she rises onto her toes and presses a kiss to my cheek.

“You get a prize, too,” she murmurs, her lips lingering just long enough to make my pulse thunder .

I stare down at her, dazed, warmth spreading through my chest. We continue walking, holding hands until she stops and points, bouncing on her toes like a toddler who ate too many candies. I follow her small hands as she points toward a darkened contraption, its name announced by a bright neon sign.

The Hall of Mirrors stands before me in all its horrifying glory.

“No way.”

But she jumps up and down, her hair moving along with her, and I feel myself melting inside. There's no way I can ever say no to that woman.

Not even for this .

“Oh, come on .” She tugs my sleeve. “It’ll be fun.”

“It’ll be stupid.”

She grins. “Exactly.”

Before I can dig my heels in, she’s already paying the entrance fee, dragging me inside. I growl, but she doesn't even seem to register my lack of enthusiasm.

The mirrors stretch and warp our reflections into grotesque shapes. Cassidy’s limbs impossibly long in one, my head enormous in another. She bursts into laughter, spinning to look at our distorted image from different angles.

I follow her along, begrudgingly chuckling at a few particularly grotesque reflections, then I catch a glimpse of myself.

The mirror in front of me doesn’t stretch or shrink me. It just reflects me. Towering. Powerful. Tusks prominent, broad shoulders. I'm the same orc I've been for two decades and yet I'm totally different.

Gone is the haunted gloom that usually stares back at me when I look into my own reflection, the male who seems so scarred by life that he puts all his efforts into scaring everyone away.

In his place stands an orc whose eyes crinkle at the corners from smiling and whose lips seem to be curved up in a permanent, stupidly happy grin.

The orc Cassidy turned me into with her kiss, with her soft, delicious curves, and her contagious enthusiasm.