The thing had grown. He’d forgotten how suffocating crowds could be. Laughter and music tangled in the air, mixing with the scent of fried dough.
At some point Julian appeared, shoved two cappuccinos into his hands and vanished again like a glittering woodland menace.
Rhavor’s gaze shifted to the stall next door.
Sylvie.
She wore a soft cream blouse tucked into a deep green skirt, the fabric hugging her hips before falling in gentle, teasing folds. An apron withFlour & Firestitched across the front was tied snugly around her waist, emphasizing every lush curve without even trying. Her hair was wrapped in a silk scarf that caught the light whenever she moved.
She smiled at the customers—warm, easy, and completely devastating.
And then she bent over a crate.
His body reacted before his brain could intervene. A hard kick of heat flared low in his gut. Curves. Full, soft, dangerous curves. Perfectly angled toward him like a private fucking punishment.
Pure torture.
Twice he’d weighed onions instead of apples. Three times he’d grabbed a paper bag and held it strategically low in front of his trousers because his body had decided to betray him in public. The last thing he needed was a line of women thinking he had an unhealthy fixation on root vegetables.
Eventually, the rush slowed to a simmer. He started hauling the remaining sacks toward his truck when a familiar voice boomed behind him.
“I bet I can handle three sacks at once faster than you, mountain man.”
Arla. At six foot five, the orc had the legs—and the brute strength—to back up every word.
“You wanna bet?” Rhavor grunted, grabbing the heaviest bag.
“I’ll carry these to the end of the aisle before you’ve even lifted yours.”
She was faster. Of course she was faster. Her bulk and power gave her the edge, and one sack drooped from Rhavor’s arm as he chased her to the car. His breathing was harder than he cared to admit.
Am I getting old? Or just distracted? Damn it.
“So,” Arla said, wiping her brow, “how are things?”
“Busy. Thanks for swapping my stall.”
She snorted. “Sure. You know I didn’t trade with Sam the fishmonger just so you’d have a better view of the pier.”
Rhavor didn’t answer. The only view he cared about was Sylvie’s lush ass bending over a crate of croissants.
“I heard Ronda’s in town,” Arla said, her tone shifting—serious now. “I think we both know what she’s after.”
“She won’t get it.”
Arla studied him for a long moment, then nodded. She was essentially like a sister to him; she knew the walls he built.
“Maybe she’s not just here for the farm, Rhavor.”
“I can handle it.”
She gave him a searching look.
“Good,” she said after a moment.”Cos there is something else I want to talk to you about”
Anything but Ronda,Rhavors thought.
“The veterans’ home got wrecked in the storm.” Arla continued “The roof’s leaking like a sieve. We need to set up the auction fast to raise funds. A private venue would save us weeks of permit paperwork.”
