Page 3 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll

TESSA

B y the time I unlock the shop the next morning, half the village already knows.

Not about the pie I sent—that was just sugar-laced diplomacy—but about him . Drogath Thornhold. Orc billionaire, former heartbreaker, and current menace to my carefully curated peace.

It starts with Mrs. Fenley, who shuffles in under a gust of leaf-laced wind and whispers, “I saw him at the co-op this morning. Bought four jars of elderberry preserves and smiled at that poor cashier like he knew how to flirt. I nearly fainted into the onions.”

Then there’s Bramley Grigs stomping into the shop mid-morning, cheeks red from the chill and his own amusement, muttering something about “that orc lifting barrels like they were made of feathers and flexing so hard the apples blushed.”

By noon, three customers have asked if Drogath is single, and one—not naming names, but she’s wearing a scarf that matches her dog—offered to bring him baked brie with her phone number tucked under the rind.

Maple Hollow has officially lost its damn mind.

I try to ignore it. I really do. I stack cinnamon brooms into neat baskets and dust the shelves like they personally offended me.

I even spend a full twenty minutes arranging a display of dried flower crowns until it looks like the Autumn Court threw up on the window ledge.

But the hum in the air is louder than usual, electric with gossip, and I know it’s only a matter of time before?—

“I heard he’s got a private sauna in his suite.”

Tara.

I don’t look up. Just keep trimming the edges off a new wreath, blades snipping with more force than necessary. “Good morning to you, too.”

She flounces in like a breeze in silk, her braids threaded with tiny brass leaves, ears flicking with mischief. Tara Windwhistle has never once entered a room quietly, nor has she ever whispered gossip in anything less than a theatrical stage whisper.

“I said good morning to the pie I stole off your counter,” she says breezily, tapping one of the seed sachets with a manicured finger.

“And before you ask, yes, it was delicious, and no, I feel no remorse. Now tell me—how does it feel knowing your ex is wandering around town looking like a romance novel with anger management issues?”

I sigh. “Like I want to throw a flower pot at someone.”

“Just not him .”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m so going to.” She leans across the counter, voice dropping to a teasing lilt. “He still looks at you like you’re the last warm cider on a cold night, Tess.”

“He looks like he’s assessing the structural integrity of my building,” I snap. “Which, frankly, he probably is.”

“You’re adorable when you lie.”

I shoot her a glare, but she just grins wider. “You’re not helpful.”

“I’m not trying to be helpful. I’m trying to get you laid.”

I groan. “Tara!”

“What? It’s a service .”

“You know what would really help? If he left. Again. For good this time.”

She sobers slightly. “Do you really want that?”

I don’t answer. Because the truth is tangled and thorny, and saying it aloud would make it too damn real.

Instead, I say, “I’m going to the orchard. Bramley needs help bundling spice apples.”

“I’ll cover the shop. Try not to get seduced by a cider barrel.”

I mutter something unladylike and escape into the crisp afternoon.

Bramley is already outside when I get to the orchard, sleeves rolled and beard bristling as he hoists crates of apples into a cart. His thick arms strain a little more than they used to, but he still moves like a mountain that doesn’t take orders from time.

“Morning,” I call, lifting my scarf against the wind.

He grunts in acknowledgment, then jerks his chin toward the side barn.

“He’s in there.”

Oh no. “Who?”

Bramley raises a bushy brow.

“You let him near your apple carts?”

“He moved three barrels without breaking a sweat and fixed the wagon wheel that’s been crooked since Yule. I’m not a fool, girl. Big orc wants to play farmhand, I say let him.”

I scowl. “You should’ve warned me.”

“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 he belongs here.

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 just finished 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. “What idiot decided I should be co-hosting a town-wide event with that orc?”

She smirks. “Pretty sure it was unanimous.”

“I didn’t even volunteer !”

“Oh, sweetie.” Tara walks over, pats me on the head like a long-suffering child. “You’re Maple Hollow’s favorite cinnamon stick. You were always going to be picked. And now the universe is giving you an opportunity.”

“An opportunity to spontaneously combust from rage?”

She grins. “An opportunity to figure out if your heart is still trying to tango with the one that broke it.”

I groan again and drag my hands through my curls.

I have spent years rebuilding this life. Quiet joy. Predictable rhythms. Flowers that don’t leave.

But now?

Now Drogath Thornhold is everywhere , wearing my name on his tongue like he never gave it up.

And I’m going to have to stand next to him, smile for the town, and pretend like I’m not still tangled up in everything I swore I buried.

Gods help me.

This harvest season is going to kill me.