"Hungry?" Brakkor asks, swinging down from the wagon bed with that easy grace that seems at odds with his broad frame.
"Starving." The admission slips out before I can try to stop it, and I feel heat creep up my neck. "I suppose you are too."
He shrugs, running hands through his dark hair. "Could eat."
I hesitate, weighing propriety against practicality. The proper thing would be to part ways here, let him find his own meal at the inn while I retreat to my cottage alone. But the day has been productive, and something about the way he handled himself at the depot—stepping back when my approach worked better—makes me reconsider.
"I could cook something," I hear myself say. "It's been a long day, and you could probably use a proper meal"
"Haven't had something homecooked since I lived with my mother." His tusks catch the lamplight as he grins. "Why not."
"Fair warning—it won't be anything spectacular. I'm not exactly known for my culinary skills."
"Can't be worse than whatever they're serving at the inn."
I lead him through the winding cobblestone streets toward the south of town, where my cottage sits nestled between an old oak and a patch of wildflowers that have grown untamed since Father stopped tending them. The timber frame looks smaller with Brakkor beside me, his broad shoulders nearly spanning the narrow front path.
"Cozy," he says, ducking slightly as we pass under the low doorframe.
The interior feels cramped with his presence filling it—Father's old reading chair by the fireplace, the small dining table that seats two if both people don't mind their knees bumping. Everything here carries memories of quiet evenings and careful conversations, and now this large, intense man stands in the middle of it like a storm that's wandered indoors.
"Make yourself comfortable." I gesture toward the sitting area while I move to the kitchen alcove. "There's not much space, but..."
"It's perfect." He settles into Father's chair, and something about the way he fits there—careful not to overwhelm the delicate furniture—makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
I pull ingredients from the pantry, my hands moving through the familiar motions of preparing a simple stew. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables and sizzle of onions in the pan creates a domestic soundtrack that feels both foreign and oddly comforting with him here.
"Those signatures were definitely forged," I say, stirring the pot. "The pressure was all wrong, and Maddie's 'M' has a distinctive flourish that wasn't there."
"Professional job though." Brakkor leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Whoever did this has experience with document fraud."
"Which means we're dealing with someone who knows what they're doing." I add herbs to the stew, the savory aroma filling the small space. "This isn't some opportunistic scheme."
"No, it's systematic. Targeted." His voice carries that edge I recognize from when he's piecing together a story. "We need to warn everyone in Harvest Hollow that someone's actively sabotaging their businesses."
I pause, wooden spoon halfway to my mouth for tasting. "Absolutely not."
"We can't just sit on this information while people's livelihoods crumble around them."
I ladle stew into two bowls, the steam rising between us like the tension in my small kitchen. "And we can't send everyone into a panic when we don't even understand what we're dealing with yet."
"How is warning them panic?" He shifts forward in Father's chair, making the old wood creak. "These people have a right to know someone's targeting their businesses."
"Do they?" I set his bowl on the side table next to him, noting how his large hands dwarf the delicate bowl. "What exactly would you have me tell them? That someone might be stealing their shipments for reasons we can't explain?"
"Better than letting them think it's their fault when their businesses fail."
I settle into the smaller chair across from him, cradling my own bowl. "You don't understand the people here, Brakkor. They're not like the hardened city dwellers you're used to writing for."
He takes a spoonful, chewing thoughtfully. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning they wake up each morning focused on perfecting their craft, on the simple pleasure of making something beautiful." I watch him taste the stew, surprised by the careful way he handles the spoon. "Maddie doesn't just bake bread—she creates little moments of joy for everyone who walks into her shop. The Penwhistles don't just run errands; they catch up with neighbors and share gossip that keeps our community connected."
"Sounds naive."
"It sounds peaceful." I set my bowl down, leaning forward. "These people have built something precious here. They trust that their neighbors won't cheat them, that their suppliers will deliver what they promise, that their world makes sense. If I tell them that someone is systematically destroying that trust..."
"They deserve to know the truth."
