Page 92 of The Pumpkin Bride

“I need a larger canvas to capture your personality.”

“I’ll accept it,” she said.

He handed her a sheet of paper. “Next, we sketch. Easier to render an idea on paper and transfer to the pumpkin than to go straight to the pumpkin.”

She sat at the table across from him, in her usual seat. “Sit still.”

“I’m not moving,” he said as he sketched.

“You’re looking down.”

“To draw you as I put chalk to paper.” He laughed. “These will not hang in a banquet hall, Marigold. Precision isn’t necessary.”

“But I want it to be good.”

He reached for the ten-minute sandglass they kept near the stove. “That’s the beauty of jack-o’-lanterns. Even when they’re terrible, they’re good.”

“Now who’s the optimist?” She laughed.

Jask grunted in response, then set the sandglass on the table “Ten minutes, chalk down, and we carve whatever’s on the parchment. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she said.

In silence, as the hearth fire crackled, their chalk whispered across the parchment. Fuzzle prowled among the pumpkins on the table, then butted his head against her biceps.

“I’ll get your dinner in a minute, Fuzz.” She had to add one of Jask’s ears, the one with the double hoops.

Fuzzle complained but slunk away again.

Jask cleared his throat. “Time. Now we lightly score the designs onto the pumpkins.”

“Mine . . .” She twisted her lips. “I don’t know if it’ll work.”

Jask circled from his side of the table. “I bet it’ll be—oh.”

He drew his brows together as he contemplated the warped sketch. She glanced from him to the sketch. She’d accurately captured the shape of his head, but everything else was too big, too small, or warped. Saints, had she given him a third eye? Still, Jask said nothing.

“You said it didn’t have to be perfect.”

Jask erupted into laughter. “Is that—” he snorted “—is that how you see me?”

“No!” She hid her face in her hands. “I told you I’m no artist. Stop laughing—I know it’s terrible.”

“It’s perfect.” He lifted the drawing. “I must frame it.”

“Ha ha. Let’s see yours, Mr. Perfect.” She snatched his paper from across the table and . . .

Oh.

It was like she was staring at herself through different eyes. Not overly detailed—there hadn’t been time for that—but in this rendering, she glanced over her shoulder, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, a smile on her lips, and a cascade of curls down her back.

“You did this in ten minutes?” she asked.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“When? All I ever see is you doing chores.”

“The nights when I can’t sleep. I prefer to occupy my hands. Drawing, whittling, carving, cooking—though I’ve done that last one less since you arrived. Fritters at three a.m. seem rude when a guest is sleeping.”