Page 55 of The Pumpkin Bride

What was wrong with her? Jask was not romantic. He was practical to his core. And she did not want romance. Not from him, not from anyone. She couldn’t deny her body flared around him. But those days were behind her. When she returned to Thornwick, she might join the Order of the Quiet Sisterhood.

Though she had trouble with the quiet part . . .

“Mare?” he prompted.

That snapped her back to attention. One person was allowed to address her by that epithet—anyone else, she’d remind them that a mare was a horse, not her. She searched Jask’s face. So different to Bram’s.

And yet . . .

She took his hand. “I’ll dirty your breeches.”

“You can launder them later.” He averted his gaze.

“Oh, joy.” Her ankle flashed as she placed her foot on his leg.

Having never stepped on an orc, she wasn’t prepared. His thick thigh was as steady and solid as a boulder. If she could linger here for an age, she would. She pushed off to climb onto the fallen tree, then paused. The drop to the other side was steep.

“Stay there,” he called.

With a grace and agility, he ran at the tree and vaulted over. The thick carpet of leaves trembled under his landing. Steady on his feet, he reached for her waist. “May I?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes. But careful of my knife.”

With her hands on his shoulders, he wrapped his hands around her middle. The scorch was instant, overwhelming, like she was iron gone orange in a blacksmith’s fire. Gently, as though they were dancing, he slowly swung her around and set her on her feet.

But he didn’t let go.

In her mind’s eye, she’d held a collection of moments that made her feel seen, loved, adored. Desired. Those memories featured Bram. This one, deep in a golden forest with a dark-eyed orc, left them behind.

For three heartbeats, they locked gazes.

“Sorry.” He withdrew. “Thought you needed to be steadied.”

He was correct, but not in the way he meant.

“Don’t apologize,” she said.

Another smoldering look from Jask, and—wait, no, he was fixed on something behind her.

“Goldcaps,” he said.

“What?” Was “goldcaps” a nickname? She glanced at her chest. Nothing golden happening there, but maybe—

“Mushrooms.” He crouched near the log, then brushed aside leaves. “Plenty here for dinner.”

She knelt next to him. “Are you sure this isn’t a fairy village?”

“No fairies here, though there’s a little magic.” Jask plucked one of the horn-shaped fungi, its saffron flesh a lovely contrast against his, then held it out to her. “Smell.”

She sniffed. “Pumpkin?”

“More like apricot.” He tossed the mushroom into her basket, then snapped a few more. “Never eat a mushroom unless you check with me first. Poisonous varieties closely resemble the edible ones.”

Add another curiosity to the Jask Bone-Cracker list.

“When did you learn about mushroom varieties?”

“During guard training.” The small under tusks dented his upper lip, and he clenched his jaw.