Page 31 of The Pumpkin Bride

There was nothing genuine about him.

And that was fine. Preferred because she’d never be overwrought about someone like Crispin. His contrived gestures, word choices, and overall affect were a contrast to Bram. He never worried about projecting confidence, wit, or courage. Bram simply was those things. That was what hooked her from the start—his unabashed Bramness.

Oh, and his dreamy, gold-flecked blue eyes.

In his gaze, she felt truly seen, quirks and all, and adored. After he died, she lost the quiet confidence his love provided. She’d allowed her parents to convince her to reduce the volume on her un-princess-like behaviors. No more sneaking out to the marketplace or the wilds of Thornwick. Her appearances were curated, scheduled, and highly choreographed.

Again, that was fine.

Then she arrived in Harvest Hollow. Traveling to a new place, shaking off Thornwick, had, much to Bess’s chagrin, rekindled her high-spiritedness. And all the things that had been fine were fine no longer.

She closed the root cellar door.

Also not like anyone in Thornwick? Jask. The orc was fascinating. Grumpy, yes. Rude, absolutely. But he didn’t eat meat, protected her from the prince, and read more than any man she’d known, including Master Alaric Wyndox, the snooty young tutor her parents hired from Clarus University for Rowan, Beckett, and herself.

A contented huffing signaled Paloma’s return. The pig entered her pen, circled a few times, then dropped into the hay.

“Welcome home, Paloma,” she said, then latched the gate.

Inside the cottage, she toed off her turn shoes, then delivered the basket to the chopping block in the kitchen’s center. Jask had placed a large pot on the stove and stoked the fire underneath.

“What’s next?” she asked.

“Washing,” he said. “Then peeling and chopping.”

She pumped water into the basin, then used the rough brush to scrub the produce. “Is there any way in particular you like them cut?”

“No. But . . . uniformity is preferred, so they cook evenly. The dense vegetables, like the carrots and turnips, should be smaller than the onion and the cabbage. And the garlic should be finely chopped—almost a paste, really.”

“So, by ‘No’—” she giggled as she peeled the turnip “—you mean, ‘Yes, I have firm preferences.”

“It’s not a preference,” he grumbled. “It makes logical sense.”

“Okay, Mr. Bone-Cracker. But maybe don’t watch me lest I ruffle your scales.”

“I don’t have scales.” He set a pot on the stove.

Mirth lightened her tone. “I was joking.”

With his back to her, he grunted in response. She stifled another giggle. Maybe it was the lack of a full night’s sleep or the lull in her dire circumstances, but everything he did was hilarious. Laughing at an orc was likely unwise, but she couldn’t help it.

As she sliced, chopped, chunked, Jask drizzled oil into the pot. Once she finished, she added the hard vegetables to the pot with a push of the blade across the cutting board. They landed with a satisfying plop and sizzle.

He added a spoonful of butter and two pinches of salt. “For flavor.”

“What about thyme?” she asked.

“Should be ready in thirty minutes.”

Oh no, an unstoppable fit was bubbling up inside her. She was powerless against it.

“Not time.” Her shoulders shook with her laughter. “Thyme.”

“I don’t get it.” He folded his arms over his chest.

Marigold fought to stand upright, but her quaking midsection stopped her. “The herb. T-h-y-m-e. Thyme.”

His rucked forehead smoothed. “Ah. I don’t have an herb garden.”