I came home for the funeral. Not for him. But there he is. Six-and-a-half feet of tusked, broody orc muscle, standing in my family’s orchard like he’s the last pumpkin on the vine—and somehow, mine to pick. Everyone says he’s dangerous. Cursed. Untouchable. Which is exactly why I can’t stop touching him. He growls. I sass. He broods. I smirk. He says stay away. I show up with cider and attitude. Now the whole town thinks I’ve lost my mind. They’re right. Because I’m about to let the spooky orc next door ruin me against a barrel of apples … And I can’t wait. Read on for tusked obsession, spooky-season heat, forbidden orchard kisses, and a heroine who refuses to play nice when the orc looks that good in flannel. HEA Guaranteed!