Page 9 of Built Orc Tough
He nods at me. “Morning.”
I glare. “You knew about this.”
“I suspected.”
“Suspected anddidn’t warn me?”
“I thought it’d be funny.”
Miss Lyria claps her hands. “Wonderful! Look at that chemistry already.”
“Chemistry?” I echo, nearly choking. “No, no, no. This is—this is floral sabotage. You’re sentencing me to weeks of cohabiting creative space with a man who thinks eucalyptus is a personality trait.”
“I’m not thrilled either,” Gorran mutters.
“Oh please,” Lyria says, shooing us both toward the front of the room. “You’ll be overseeing the wedding bouquet competition—our most prestigious and popular event. All eyes on you. The true soul of the festival!”
I spin toward her, clutching the festival schedule like it’s a dagger. “You wantus—him and me—to co-designromantic bouquets? Publicly? On purpose?”
“Yes!” she beams.
Gorran crosses his arms. “You could’ve warned me, too.”
“And miss the delight of this moment? Don’t be ridiculous.”
The mayor, a short man with mismatched socks and a weak smile, nods solemnly from his seat. “We believe inintegrationhere,” he says, as if that settles it.
I inhale slowly, letting the scent of my own shampoo and old roses ground me.
“Fine,” I say at last. “But I’m not compromising on design principles. No ‘root symbolism’ or sacrificial garlic strings.”
“I don’t use garlic,” Gorran says evenly. “It clashes with rosewood.”
Lyria’s clapping again. The room bursts into polite applause like we’ve just gotten engaged.
As we leave, I drag Gorran aside near the front steps.
“If you so much astouchmy lilies,” I hiss, “I will pour hot glue in your beard while you sleep.”
He lifts one brow. “You think I sleep here?”
“You smell like you do.”
A flicker of a smirk. Then he leans closer—just enough that I catch the scent of cedar and something spicy beneath it. “You’ll survive, Ivy. Unless you faint from proximity to a little dirt.”
I open my mouth, but he’s already turning to walk away, calm as a monk, infuriating as ever.
Sprout catches up with me a second later, breathless. “So… co-hosting? Withhim?”
“I’m going to die,” I say flatly. “Tell my plants I loved them. And to burn all evidence of my Pinterest boards.”
I plaster the fakest smile I can muster across my face—tight enough to crack porcelain and twice as brittle—as I step back toward the center of the room where half of Elderbridge’s committee members are still watching us like we’re their favorite romcom couple and not two wildly incompatible people legally forced to share a business address.
“Well,” I say, sweet as sugar laced with arsenic, “if it’s what thecommunitywants, then of course I’ll co-host.”
The crowd claps again. Gorran just inclines his head slightly, like a stone pretending to be agreeable.
Inside, I’m screaming.
