Page 41 of How To Woo A Warrior Orc

“We need to start constructing props and stages,” I say, exhausted.

“Oh, that’s no problem. None at all.” His tone is so breezy and unconcerned that I fight the urge to flip the table on his ass.

“Oh? Have you suddenly become an expert craftsman?”

“No, but the minotaur brothers down the street are, and they owe me a favor.” He gives me a sly look, and I narrow my eyes at his toothy grin.

“By the moon, Caelan, what did you do to the minotaurs?”

“Nothing,” he says gleefully.

“Bullshit,” I tell him.

“Precisely,” he agrees. “It’s not my fault that they simply have had terrible luck at finding work lately. Has nothing to do with the odor of manure that’s pervading their shop.”

I noisily exhale through my nostrils. You can take a trickster fae out of the Underhill, but you can’t take the trickster out of the fae.

Typical.

“Well, I am sure they will be delighted to have the work, and I am sure I can talk them into a very steep discount for the good of the town. Maybe they can construct a giant carrot.”

“No fucking carrots.”

“I like carrots,” he says.

“No.”

“Potatoes?” he asks.

“What?”

“A giant potato. For the festival.”

“Pumpkins,” I enunciate slowly. “Pumpkins are a harvest vegetable.”

“So blasé. So expected.”

I stand up, the bench squeaking across the floor.

“Where are you going? We’ve not finished our planning.”

“I’m going to see a minotaur about some pumpkins,” I say evenly, unsurprised as Caelan trails behind me, holding back his laughter at himself.

At least he’s his own best audience.

By the timeI return to Piper’s lovely apartment, she’s half asleep in an armchair by the fire, so beautiful it makes my heart ache.

She glances up as the door closes behind me, and Velvet, who’s sleeping by the fire, opens one eye before settling back in.

Fresh bread steams on the table, a teapot in a knit cozy set out next to a clean cup with a bowl of sugar cubes next to it. There’s sliced honeyed ham on a platter with fresh vegetables, and I grin at the carrots, thinking of Caelan’s absurd root vegetable fixation.

“Hi,” she says tentatively, her voice husky with sleep, one slim hand reaching for me.

It’s a scene of domestic bliss, one so unfamiliar and dreamy all at once it makes my heart ache.

“Kal’aki ne,” I tell her, smiling wide, so happy I am afraid to think about it too hard, for fear it might slip away. “You are so beautiful.”

She smiles wide at me, then yawns. “I made you some bread. I thought you might be hungry.”

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