Cobblestone Heat in Orcish Sheets (Harvest Hollow #2)

Calla

The cobblestones beneath my boots gleam with morning dew as I navigate the controlled chaos of festival preparation.

Half-assembled stalls lean at precarious angles while their builders—mostly dwarves with tool belts that jangle like wind chimes—hammer and curse in equal measure.

Overhead, ravens weave between the timber beams of buildings, their wings cutting sharp lines against the amber sky.

Tiny scrolls flutter from their claws like autumn leaves refusing to fall.

A pixie child darts past my elbow, nearly colliding with a gnome hauling a crate of glowing lanterns. The lanterns pulse in rhythm, testing their enchantments—soft gold, then warm orange, then back to gold.

"Watch where you're flying, Petal!" The gnome's voice carries the exasperation of someone who's had this conversation before.

The pixie giggles and spirals upward, joining her friends in their aerial game of tag around the hanging festival banners.

I push through the bustle toward The Golden Crust, where the familiar warmth draws me like a beacon. The enchanted ovens glow through the windows—steady, reliable magic that never wavers. Unlike the rest of this organised mayhem.

The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and Maddie's face lights up from behind the counter.

"Cal! Perfect timing." She's already reaching for the coffee pot, flour dusting her apron like fresh snow. "I was just thinking this morning needed more structure, and here you are."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." I settle onto the stool that's become mine over the years. "Though I suspect you're buttering me up because you've done something catastrophically optimistic again."

"Me? Never." Maddie pours coffee into my usual cup—the blue ceramic one with the chip on the handle that she refuses to replace. "I'm a beacon of reasonable decision-making."

I accept the coffee and let my gaze drift to the display case. The usual morning array fills most of the shelves, but there's a conspicuous gap where my lavender honey scones should be. The empty space stares back at me like an accusation.

"Seasonal delays," Maddie says, catching my look. "The lavender honey delivery was supposed to arrive yesterday, but you know how these autumn shipments can be. Everything gets backed up when the weather turns."

Her tone carries that particular brand of forced cheer that means she's more irritated than she wants to admit.

"Since when do your suppliers have delays?" I take a small sip of coffee, studying her face. "They've been reliable for what, three years?"

"People have off days." Maddie shrugs, but her hands fidget with the dishrag. "Even magical bees need their beauty sleep."

We both laugh, the sound mixing with the gentle hum of enchanted ovens and the distant festival preparations.

"I should let you get to your reasonable decision-making." I drain the last of my coffee and slide off the stool. "The Whistle won't edit itself, unfortunately."

"More's the pity." Maddie grins, already turning toward a customer who's just walked in. "See you tonight for the opening ceremony?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Someone has to document your inevitable triumph over the judging committee."

The morning air hits my face as I step back onto the cobblestones, sharper now that the sun has climbed higher.

Festival workers buzz around me like industrious bees, their voices creating a symphony of organized chaos.

I navigate between a pair of elves hanging garlands and a dwarf testing the structural integrity of a pie-eating contest platform.

The public notice board stands at the corner of Main and Harvest Streets, its weathered oak frame housing a collection of announcements, trade postings, and community notices.

I usually give it a cursory glance—most of the information filters through the Whistle anyway—but today something makes me pause.

A figure blocks half the board, his broad shoulders and considerable height creating a shadow that falls across the lower postings.

Dark hair, practical clothes, and the kind of stillness that suggests intense concentration.

He's studying the notices with the focus of someone deciphering ancient runes.

I step closer, intending to read around him, when I realize something odd about his positioning. His head tilts at an angle that seems—

"Excuse me."

He doesn't move. Doesn't even acknowledge I've spoken.

I clear my throat and take another step forward, only to collide solidly with his back as he shifts position. The impact sends me stumbling sideways, my carefully maintained composure scattered like loose papers in a windstorm.

"Steady there." His hand shoots out to catch my elbow, preventing what would have been an undignified tumble into the lamppost.

I find myself looking up into green eyes set in a face that's undeniably striking—sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, the kind of features that suggest both intelligence and stubbornness. An orc, I realize, though his accent carries no trace of the mountain territories.

"You were reading that upside down." The observation slips out before I am able to stop it.

"Was I?" He releases my arm but doesn't step back, creating a pocket of space that feels oddly intimate despite the bustling street around us. "Interesting perspective. Makes you notice things you might otherwise miss."

"Such as?"

"Such as why the trade postings are organized by date instead of category.

Or why emergency notices are buried between advertisements for festival trinkets and lost cat announcements.

" His gaze shifts back to the board, then returns to me with unsettling directness.

"How exactly does someone find critical information in this system? "

I straighten my blouse, reasserting the professional distance he seems determined to ignore.

"It's organized chronologically. Most recent postings at the top. Simple enough for anyone with basic literacy skills."

"Simple, yes. Effective?" He gestures at the board with one large hand. "Tell me, if you needed to find all current trade opportunities in metalwork, how long would that take you?"

"I—" I pause, realizing I'd have to scan the entire board, reading each posting individually. "Most people know what they're looking for."

"Do they? Or do they just give up and ask around instead?" His mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. "Seems like a missed opportunity for a town that prides itself on commerce."

The criticism stings more than it should. This board has operated the same way for decades. It works perfectly fine for people who understand how Harvest Hollow functions.

"If you have questions about how our community operates, perhaps you should read the paper like everyone else." My voice carries the chill I reserve for particularly persistent sources fishing for information. "The Whistle covers everything worth knowing."

"The Whistle?" His eyebrows lift with genuine interest. "Now that sounds promising."

The way he says it—like he's filing the information away for later use—sends an unexpected flutter through my chest. I crush it immediately.

"Maybe I will." He steps aside, finally clearing my path to the notice board, though his presence still seems to take up more space than physics should allow. "Thank you for the recommendation."

I brush past him without another word, my heels clicking against the cobblestones with a little more force than necessary.

The notice board blurs slightly as I pretend to read it, hyperaware of his continued presence behind me.

When I finally risk a glance over my shoulder, he's walking away with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly where he's going.

Irritating. Presumptuous. And unfortunately, not entirely wrong about the board's organization.

I shake my head and continue toward the Whistle's office, trying to ignore the way his questions have lodged themselves in my mind like splinters.