Page 86 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Bram, you must.”

He lifted a shoulder. “I can do without.”

The gleam entered her eye. He knew it well, and it always meant trouble. She counted out six seeds.

“What are you—”

She leapt onto him, nearly knocking him from the bench as she flattened the seeds to his lips. The tart rich juice seeped inside his mouth. He held on to her to keep her from falling to the ground, then licked his lips.

Damn it, she was right. They were delicious.

And she was in his lap.

“Saints, Bram.” She giggled. “You look like you’ve caught a bloody flux.”

This was it—this was the moment he could do what he’d been dreaming about for a while now. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was chaste.

Until she held firm to his face and devoured him.

Fuzzle leapt back onto he counter.

“Saints, cat!” He lost his grip on the fruit’s slick skin. Ruby-colored seeds scattered across the butcher’s block. As he collected them, he felt the chill of someone crossing the boundary without his permission.

Marigold.

He dashed to the door, grabbed his cloak from the peg, and ran down the cottage’s front steps. The path to the woods was damp with this morning’s melted frost, giving him excellent footsteps to track. He was halfway to the trees when he remembered—shite. The cakes. Burning down the cottage wouldn’t do, either. As he pivoted on his heel, the familiar clang of Alfred’s bell rang in the distance.

But Alfred didn’t trigger the chill, and this visit was out of schedule. He wasn’t due for another few days. Jask shaded his eyes and peered.

His hammering heart calmed.

Crisis averted.

A woman sat beside Alfred—wait, he recognized her. Elenor the Brewster, the formidable alewife of Harvest Hollow. She ran three taverns and was known for unapologetically booting anyone too soused from her establishments. He’d knocked back plenty of ale at the Laughing Gourd as Sir Bram Duncan. But he’d always been respectful.

He’d helped her kick out Kevin a time or two as well.

He raised his hand in reluctant greeting. She wasn’t the first Harvest Hollow resident to visit Grimroot Farm. Alfred, obviously. Wayfarers and ramblers, too, some of whom he’d known as Bram. Every time, he wondered if they’d see through the autumn sprite’s magic and perceive the man within the orc—but none did.

“Salutations,” Alfred called. “Jask, meet a potential customer.”

“You need pumpkins?” Bram asked. “Apples?”

Elenor tipped her head back and roared with laughter. “Mercy no! The cider.”

“What cider?” He helped her down from the driver’s box.

She glanced over her shoulder. “What did you call it, Alfred? Crankle’s Finest?” She turned to Jask. “Strange name.”

Crankle had been Rowan’s nickname for Bess after she’d swatted a pint of cider out of his hand at a banquet. Admittedly, the prince had been young, but he took it personally.

“Alfred offered me a sample,” Elenor explained. “It’s the lightest, frothiest cider I’ve ever had the pleasure to drink. I want it for my taverns.”

“We haven’t produced it at scale.”

“Even better,” she said. “If it’s scarce, folks’ll prize it more. Do you have any you can part with?”