Page 10 of Built Orc Tough
This was supposed to bemyseason. My festival comeback. I’ve spent three weeks sketching designs that balance city flair with rustic charm, researching hybrid blossoms that bloom longer and brighter than anything this town’s seen in years, and hand-painting ceramic vases with little hidden runes for longevity.
Now I’m going to have to run every decision pastMr. Mudroot Tea and Brooding Silences.
Perfect.
I follow the wave of town council members outside and smile until my cheeks ache, accepting well-wishes from people I barely know with all the charm of a pageant contestant who just got told she’s sharing the crown with the school janitor.
Miss Lyria sweeps up beside me like she floats instead of walks, curls bouncing, thermos still in hand. “Oh, Ivy, dear. You’re going to beso goodfor each other.”
I force a tight laugh. “If by good you mean legally and spiritually incompatible, sure.”
She tsks like I’ve just told her I put daisies in a sympathy bouquet. “Don’t be dramatic. Opposites spark. And you both need a bit of spark.”
“What Ineed,” I hiss through clenched teeth, “is one full festival season where I’m not cleaning moss out of my workbench or dodging beard oil that smells like boiled licorice.”
Lyria just smiles knowingly, which is even worse than arguing. She knows something. Shealwaysknows something.
By the time I trudge back to the shop, my arms full of committee brochures and my soul significantly withered, Gorran is already behind the counter on his side of the shop,methodically slicing something that looks like burnt wood and smells like week-old curry.
He doesn’t look up as I enter.
I drop my stack of folders on the shared table like it owes me money and start circling notes on the schedule with a pen that’s running out of ink in a way that feelsverysymbolic.
“We’re meeting Monday morning to outline the bouquet event theme,” I say without looking at him.
He grunts.
I grind my teeth. “Grunt once for yes, twice for no?”
Another grunt. Slightly louder. I assume that means he’s agreed to show up.
I make a note to double-check his attendance with Sprout anyway.
As I’m reworking the ribbon color palette to contrast his god-awful jars of gnome-tears or whatever, I glance up and catch him watching me from the corner of his eye.
“Something you want to say?” I ask, arching a brow.
His lips twitch but just barely.
“No,” he says. “Just enjoying the calm before the chaos.”
“Oh honey,” I shoot back, “if you think this is calm, you’re going to love what happens when you try to suggestweedsin the bridal bouquets.”
“Medicinal flora,” he corrects smoothly. “Some traditions value it.”
“And some traditions value not sneezing through your own vows.”
We stare at each other for a beat longer than we should.
Then I turn back to my notes.
Fine. If the town wants a show of unity, I’ll give them one. Bright colors, perfect arrangements, smiles that hide knives.
But if Gorran thinks for a second that I won’t make his life absolutelymiserablefrom now until the final petal drops, he’s about to learn just how creative a pissed-off florist can be.
CHAPTER 6
GORRAN
