Page 1 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
TESSA
T he scent of clove oranges hits before the bell above the door even rings.
I’m wrist-deep in a bundle of broomcorn, twining cinnamon sticks through the bristles with a strand of crimson twine, humming along to the scratchy old autumn mix playing on my shop’s record player.
Outside, the wind scatters burnt-orange leaves across the cobbled walk in front of Maple & Mallow, and I swear half of them follow me inside some days.
My curls have already collected three twigs and a stray petal this morning, but I don’t bother brushing them out.
Customers expect the mess. Rustic charm, I call it. Tara calls it “witch chic.”
The shop smells like spiced cider and rosemary, like it always does this time of year, and my hands are stained faintly with beetroot dye from yesterday’s wreath order.
Everything is exactly how I like it—predictable, warm, full of muted laughter and the rustle of dried florals hanging from the rafters like sleepy bats.
That voice.
Low. Gravel-slick. Rich like cedar smoke and too many damn memories.
“Still talking to your plants, Tessa Quinn?”
I nearly drop the entire vase of bittersweet vine.
My fingers jerk, a cinnamon broom crashes off the counter, and the florist wire snags my apron like it’s conspiring with the universe to embarrass me completely.
I catch the vase with a breathless noise I refuse to call a squeak, right it carefully, and keep my back turned for half a second longer than necessary.
Breathe. Don’t panic. Don’t throw the vase. Don’t sob. Or worse, don’t throw yourself at him.
I turn.
He fills the doorway like a storm cloud. That tall. That broad. That still-too-handsome-for-his-own-good.
Drogath Thornhold.
Eight years haven’t softened him. If anything, they’ve carved him deeper—more powerful, more precise.
He’s wearing one of those city suits that cost more than my entire monthly inventory order, but it still stretches taut over shoulders I used to curl against on lazy Sunday mornings.
His coat’s long, tailored, dark as crow feathers.
His eyes—gods help me—are that same molten gold, like October sun burning behind stormclouds.
And he’s standing in my shop like nothing’s changed.
“Drogath,” I say, because his name is safer than what I want to scream or whisper. “Maple Hollow’s changed since you left. We have streetlights now. And a cider slushie machine at the co-op. You must be thrilled.”
His mouth curves just slightly. That almost-smile used to undo my knees. It still might.
“Wasn’t here for the streetlights.”
“Pity. I was just about to give a tour. Let me guess—business?”
He takes a step forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s measuring the space between us. “Of course.”
“Right.” My voice is too bright. Too chipper. Sunshine in human skin , they call me—but the warmth right now feels brittle. “Because when I think wholesome countryside charm , I immediately think Drogath Thornhold, urban development tycoon. ”
He glances around the shop, and I follow his gaze like I’m seeing it new.
Bundled marigolds and dried hydrangeas hang in lazy arcs over the windows.
A chalkboard by the door reads Autumn Specials: Cinnamon Brooms & Acorn Spell Sachets – 3 for 10g!
There’s a garland of dried orange slices catching the sunlight just right, throwing little stained-glass reflections across the worn wooden floor.
Every inch of this place is me—built with trembling hands and stubborn grit after he left.
And he’s here. In the middle of it. Looking like a thunderclap in a place built for soft rain.
“You’re still here,” he says quietly, like it’s a surprise.
I arch a brow. “Well, no one offered me an empire in exchange for heartbreak, so yes. Still here. Still arranging gourds and brewing mulled tea for Mrs. Haverford every Tuesday at two.”
Drogath’s gaze lingers on me. I can feel it—like sunlight pressed against skin that hasn’t seen warmth in years.
“You cut your hair,” he says.
It’s not true. I haven’t, not really. It’s just… wild today. Full of wind and stubbornness and a couple too many memories. “You notice my hair, but not the hand-painted mural I spent two weeks detailing on that back wall? For shame.”
He walks closer. The faint scent of pine and leather drifts off him, curling around my senses like an old song I forgot I loved.
He stops in front of the dried floral arch I made last week, careful not to brush it with his broad shoulders, though I can tell by the tension in his frame he’d rather barrel straight through it.
I fold my arms, try not to notice how much taller he still is. How much bigger. How much I still want to reach up and smooth that silver-dusted beard with my fingers and press my face into the hollow of his throat like it’s still mine.
“You look good, Tessa,” he says, low and deliberate.
I don’t flinch. Don’t preen either. “You look like a real estate brochure had a very successful baby with a war god.”
That makes him laugh—just once. A rumble. Rich. Brief. But it hits me square in the chest.
“What do you want, Drogath?”
His smile fades.
“I’m overseeing a new project. Up on the ridge. A retreat development. I’ll be in town for a while.”
“Lovely. Maybe you can squeeze in the Harvest Gala between flattening forests.”
“I already volunteered.”
“You what?”
“For the Gala. Bramley Grigs said they needed hands. I figured mine were big enough to count for two.”
“Since when do you care about the Gala?”
He hesitates.
Since you , I think, but he doesn’t say it.
“I like what it stands for,” he says instead. “Community. Preservation.”
I snort, then immediately regret it, because it’s too familiar, too us . “Right. Mr. Preservation. Tell that to the hundred-year-old maple grove you bulldozed in Springhaven.”
He bristles. Just slightly. Good. Let him feel something.
“Maple Hollow’s not Springhaven.”
“No,” I say softly. “It’s not.”
The silence between us stretches, filled with the hum of the old record player and the rustle of dried leaves tapping at the windows.
I reach down to untangle a strand of jute from around my wrist, fingers trembling just slightly.
He notices. Of course he does. He always saw more than I wanted him to.
He steps back, finally. Just enough to let me breathe again. I want to hate the way the air feels colder without him standing so close.
“I’ll be seeing you, Tessa,” he says, voice rough around the edges now.
“You already have.”
The bell rings when he leaves. I don’t look up.
Not until the door’s fully shut and the echo of his presence fades into the cinnamon-thick air.
Only then do I let myself sink onto the stool behind the counter, one hand buried in the folds of my apron, fingers curled tight around the small sachet of dried lavender I always keep in the pocket.
The little tin in the back room still holds the carved acorn he gave me the day he left. I haven’t opened it in years. But right now, I can feel its shape in my memory like it never left my hand.
“By maple’s mercy,” I whisper, heart pounding loud enough to scare the petals.
He’s back.
And I am so, so not ready.