Page 30 of Built Orc Tough
“Cooler again?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
“It’s called temperature therapy,” I snap. “Look it up.”
He just grins and hauls the sack to the back, leaving me in relative peace to die quietly from embarrassment.
Later, at the market, the smell of roasted nuts and fresh herbs mixes with the sound of bells and gossip. I’m manning our stall, pretending to be very interested in twine organization, when I hear her voice.
“Oh,hello,Gorran.”
I look up. And instantly want to crawl into a flower pot and live there forever.
She’s tall. Taller than me. Of course she is. Hair like golden vines, eyes like mossy pools, skin with that subtle glow that only happens when someone’s born of literal trees. A dryad. And not just any dryad. The kind they paint on festival banners to make mortals weep.
Gorran straightens a little. Not a lot. Just enough to signal she’s got his attention. “Larethia.”
Of course her name’s Larethia. It sounds like an expensive perfume and the start of heartbreak.
“I didn’t know you were still in Elderbridge,” she purrs, leaning just alittletoo close as she examines a bouquet. “You used to come to the wildgroves often. Missed you.”
I pretend to retie a ribbon with excessive force.
“Been busy,” Gorran says, voice steady.
“Mmm. With her?” she asks, glancing toward me like I’m a smudge on glass.
I smile. Sharp. “Hi. Ivy. Co-owner. Purveyor of thorny stems and withering sarcasm. You are?”
She doesn’t even blink. “Larethia. Old friend.”
I bet.
Gorran, bless his emotionally constipated heart, doesn’t seem to register the minefield forming. “She does most of the arrangements,” he says. “I just lift things.”
I should be flattered. Instead, I want to hurl a sunflower at his head.
Larethia giggles. Actually giggles. “Well, it’s good to see you’ve found your...niche.”
“I’m gonna go check the parsley,” I mutter and stalk off toward the herb booth, heart pounding for reasons I refuse to name.
Behind me, I hear her say, “You always had a thing for strays.”
And his answer? Too low for me to hear.
Coward.
I buy way too much mint, knock over a crate of rosemary, and spend the rest of the market trying not to look like someone who dreams about kissing their business partner and then gets jealous when a tree goddess bats her lashes.
I fail spectacularly.
By the time we pack up, Gorran’s quiet. Not his usual quiet. This one’s got edges.
“You okay?” he asks, as we load the last crate.
“Peachy,” I lie.
“You seem...tense.”
I whirl on him. “Tense? Why would I be tense? Because some botanical supermodel waltzed up and flirted with you like I wasn’t even here?”
