Page 66 of The Pumpkin Bride

“No, nothing like that.”

“What is it like, then, Jask?” Her brain buzzed with possibilities.

The orc worked his tusks against his upper lip. “I’d rather not get into it.”

Much as she wanted answers, she wouldn’t push. He’d respected the pace at which she shared information with him. She should do the same. But refraining from an interrogation was like trying to hold in a sneeze. She needed something to distract her from both the unanswered question of the barrier and the coming tempest.

She glanced at the sandglass. “Shall we play a game while we wait for the eggs to bake?”

Jask lifted a shoulder. “I would, but alas, I have no games.”

“Incorrect.” She opened a cabinet below his bookcase. From behind a collection of spare farm equipment parts, she withdrew a wooden box containing her favorite game of all time. “You have Tables.”

He frowned. “Surely that hasn’t been here the whole time?”

“It was quite dusty when I found it.” She knelt at the crate in front of the hearth, then unfastened the latches to lay the board open. “But all the pieces are here. I checked. Do you know how to play?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to. You’ll beat me.”

“Where’s your confidence?” She separated out the discs and dice.

“You always—” He abruptly cut himself.

After a beat, she raised an eyebrow. “Always what?”

“Surprise me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now sit.”

He sighed and dropped onto the divan across from her.

Twenty minutes later, she rattled the dice a final time and let them tumble. Yes, exactly the roll she needed. Jask groaned as she walked her discs safely home, stacking them where he could no longer touch them.

“Congratulations.” She stuck out her hand.

He pumped it. “For what? I lost, as predicted.”

“For correctly guessing the future.” Her laugh shook the support beam. Insulting? Yes. Unseemly, unladylike, and unbecoming as well, but damn, she loved winning. Never would she flip a game board if she lost, but winning was glorious.

“You’re the worst,” he said. “Such a sore winner.”

“The worst?” She flipped her palms upward. “How would you know? This is the first time we’ve played.”

“I can tell,” he said. “Would it kill you to be gracious?”

“At Tables? Never.”

“Well, in my house, the winner tidies up.”

“A price worth paying.” She swept the pieces into their burlap bags, then tightened the drawstring.

Wind buffeted the house, snuffing her calm mood.

She glanced at the roof. Since she was a child, raging storms frightened her. She’d been caught outside once, terrified by the lightning, convinced it would slice through her if she strayed from her hiding place in the hedgerow. Bess had found her and, instead of comforting her with a hug, lectured her on making her worry.

Jask rested a palm on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Marigold. The cottage is sturdy. I’ve weathered storms this bad and worse.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, too quickly and with a tremble.