Page 32 of The Pumpkin Bride

“I have some.” She exhaled and thumbed happy tears from her eyes, then opened her physic satchel. “It’s good for coughs, too. Mind if I add some? And some rosemary? Though you can never go wrong with butter and salt, herbs add a lot to vegetables.”

Jask gestured toward the pot. “Be my guest. Give everything a stir while you’re at it, then put the lid on so the vegetables steam as well.”

Marigold liberally shook in the seasoning, then corked the bottle and set it on the counter. She drummed her fingers. A tisane of rosemary and honey would partner well with the meal.

As she filled the kettle, she asked. “Who taught you to cook?”

He relaxed his shoulders a bit. “My father. It was the two of us, so if he was ill or wanted a break, I needed to learn.”

Her heart cramped. Growing up without a mother’s care was a difficult wound to heal. Bram preferred not to talk about it, but she’d often wondered if his lack of a mother figure was the root of his fierce self-sufficiency.

“Oh?” Marigold set the kettle on the stove. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to pry. Would you like to tell me about your mother? You don’t have to.”

After Bram died, no one spoke about him. While her family’s silence was a misguided attempt not to upset her, she felt like he’d died twice because she couldn’t remember him with anyone. Based on this, she resolved to ask fellow grievers about those they’d lost.

He slid his palm against his neck. “I don’t remember much. Only that she was kind.”

The vulnerable gesture tugged her heart strings. Almost like she could see the small version of this large-framed person.

“That’s its own tragedy.” She pulled two mugs from the open shelf above the sink. “No matter when, it’s devastating when a loved one dies.”

“Has death touched your life?” For the first time today, his gaze was not evasive.

“Yes. My . . .” Her breath whooshed from her. “He was called Bram.”

A lump formed in her throat. Whew, okay. She’d confessed that without tears.

“You called him your true love, and yet you’re betrothed to Prince Crispin?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I’m trying very hard not to be. And you made that point earlier. Are you mocking me?”

“No, but how could you fall for another after experiencing true love?”

As if loving another was possible.

She thwacked the knife through the cabbage head. “I didn’t.”

Jask’s grunt drew her attention. With his thumb pressed to his chin, his eyes searched hers. For what, she did not know, and she was too tired to attempt to sleuth it out.

“Does that surprise you?” she asked.

“No. The prince is a loathsome twit. Tell me about Bram, then.” Jask lifted the pot’s lid. “And add the cabbage and water, then give it all a stir.”

“There’s too much to say.” She slid the chopped cabbage into the mix, then firmly shifted the vegetables.

As Jask sidled next to her with the small pitcher, her back flared with awareness at his proximity. Mere inches separated them. Heat pumped from his body, reaching her through her kirtle. He was warmer than the steam that billowed as he poured the water.

Orcs really did run hot.

He fitted the lid back on the pot. “Then sum him up? I’d like to learn about what made him special to you.”

Tears pricked her eyes. She could pretend she was blinking from the steam, but why bother? Jask was a stranger. Talking to him was like telling her troubles to the sea—he’d soak them up, and then she’d sail away, leaving them behind.

“Fair warning—if I talk about him, I’ll cry.”

Which made people uncomfortable. Mama tolerated the tears, but Papa, Rowan, and Beckett coughed and left the room. Bess, as expected, told her to buck up. To be fair, they all thought Bram was merely her best friend, nothing more. But hugs would’ve been nice.

“Tears don’t bother orcs, Princess. Cats, yes, but never tears.”