Page 81 of The Pumpkin Bride

“Now reverse it—right, step, left, tap.”

More bumping. Not that he minded.

When he paused, she said, “Your rhythm’s off.”

“Never heard you complain about that before.”

She slapped his biceps. “Be serious.”

“I am. Dancing is deadly, deadly serious.”

“It is. Men are allowed to look foolish, but women are held to a higher standard.” She squeezed his hand. “Let’s try again?”

He’d practice all night if it meant holding her hand. They repeated the steps—left, then right—again and again until they didn’t bump into each other.

“Is that it?” she asked. “A lively sidestep and hop?”

“Not quite. Those are the basic steps—after we string six together, we turn toward each other, then kick our feet. You—right, then left, and me—left, then right. All together it’s step-tap six times, then kick-kick. Got it?”

As with battle maneuvers, describing it made it seem complicated. Seeing it was a different story. Fuzzle was unbothered, licking his paws.

The flames from the firepit sparkled in Marigold’s eyes. “We’ll find out.”

“Then we go.” He led them into the routine.

The step-taps were fine. At the kick-kick, she nailed his shin.

He grunted and rubbed at the spot.

“Oh, sorry. Did I mix up the kicks?”

“I refuse to name names. Let’s try again, but maybe this will help you remember which leg is your right.”

He knelt before her, then lifted her skirt.

“What are you—oh,” she said as he licked a trail along her right thigh. “That tickles. And is chilly.”

“Now you’ll remember.” He rose again and held out his hand.

Side by side, they hop-skipped as he hummed a tune, turned to each other, and this time their kicks alternated, saving his shins from further bruising. As they caught their breath, his was stolen again by the dramatic light and shadows playing on her face.

“Now what?” she asked. “A staring contest?”

“A lift.” He lifted her hands to his shoulders, then wrapped his own around her waist. “You jump, and I assist. On the count of three. One, two—”

She jumped.

“Marigold. I said on the count of three.”

“I was eager.” She shimmied and shook out her fingers. “Okay, nervous energy cleared. Count of three.”

Bram’s chuckle rumbled his chest. “One, two, three.”

She jumped, and he lifted her as though she weighed no more than a pillow. With her hair shrouding them from the night, he couldn’t resist spinning while holding her upon the pedestal of his body. There were many things that displeased him about his orc form, but he enjoyed the strength from the start.

“Like it up there?” he asked.

She lifted her arms to the sky. “There are so many stars out tonight—it’s like they’re out here dancing with us.”