Page 19 of The Pumpkin Bride

“You rang the bell.” He jabbed his finger toward it.

“Because I made sandwiches.”

“I said don’t bother.” For the first time, Bram noticed Crispin’s knights had smashed his artfully carved porch pumpkins. Knaves, all. The pumpkins weren’t works of art, but there was no reason for this gourd carnage.

“But I did worry about it, and I made them anyway.” She entered the house, then beckoned to him. “I hope you like salted-ham-and-brie sandwiches.”

He left the hatchet on the porch. “I had salted ham and brie?”

“No, I had salted ham and brie,” she said. “In my trunk.”

Bram wrinkled his brow as he unbuckled his boots and traded them for his house shoes. “What trunk?”

“That one over there.” She gestured toward a steamer trunk the size of his chicken coop. “I minimized it for easier carrying. It contains my essentials.”

“Brie isn’t essential.”

“Never question the essentiality of cheese.” She lifted a kettle from the cooking hearth and poured fragrant steaming water into a mug. “And I made my honey-lemon-ginger tisane. As promised, it’ll change your life. So will the petit fours.”

“Princess, I’ve no time for a leisurely meal.”

“Neither do I. I’m very busy.” She sat at an expertly laid table covered with a floral tablecloth. “Now, wash your hands and sit.”

He had table coverings?

Not the point. He had two options: continue to fight with her and drag this out, or do as she said and eat with her for five minutes. Unaccustomed as she was to not getting her way, Marigold would likely follow him if he simply turned on his heel. The goal was to keep her hidden, at least for this first day.

With a sigh, he pumped spring water onto his hands and lathered with the pine-scented soap he’d made earlier this month. With the muck scrubbed free, he thumped his ass onto the bench across from her.

He picked the ham from the sandwich and flung it to the floor near Fuzzle. “I don’t eat meat.”

“An orc who doesn’t eat meat?” She tilted her head. “Fascinating. Why not?”

Because the creatures here were his only company, and he couldn’t stomach eating his friends. If he shared that, though, he’d need to explain he couldn’t leave the farm, leading to the reveal that he was cursed, and . . . No. Too dangerous.

Secrets and lies it would be.

“Doesn’t agree with me,” he said.

“But you have a pig,” she said. “She’s not intended for the spit?”

Paloma, on a spit? The very idea hurt his heart.

“She forages truffles. Everyone here works, Princess.”

As he took an enormous bite of the brie sandwich, he murmured appreciatively. “Jam?”

“Blackberry preserves. I brought that, too.” She sipped from her mug. “By the way, I’ll take the divan tonight.”

Tonight. Where they’d sleep under the same roof since . . . never.

Naps in the hayloft aplenty. But a full night together? Between Bess and his foster father, they’d never managed it in Thornwick.

“Take the loft.” He fixed his gaze on his plate. The sound of his chewing rivaled Paloma at her trough. Deliberate, because Marigold hated loud chewing. “I’ll take the couch. I barely sleep, and I’m up early for chores. Better if I’m down here so I won’t disturb your sleep.”

Do not think of her in your bed. In her shift, betwixt his sheets.

Absently, he gulped his beverage, then spluttered the hellish liquid back into his mug.