Page 27 of Fixing the Grumpy Pumpkin King
“Told you modern mortals don’t do feasts anymore, Boss,” Bramble muttered from his flagon perch.
“I’ll... remove it.” Jack’s voice was quiet, dignified, and carefully controlled.
“The food isn’t bad! I mean, what I can identify looks great. It’s just—“
“Too much. I understand.”
Locke softened. He could see the effort Jack had put in, the hope, the trying. He walked over to the table, carefully navigating around dishes and platters, and picked up something that looked like a puffy donut but smelled savory. Stuffed with meat and vegetables, golden-brown and still warm.
He bit into it.
Oh god. That was incredible. Flaky pastry, rich filling, perfectly seasoned. Where had Jack even learned to cook like this?
“Okay you can leave those.”
Jack’s carved features brightened slightly. Not much, but enough. The carved mouth curved up just a fraction. “Truly?”
Locke grabbed two more of the hand pies and popped them into his mouth before heading for the bathroom. “I need tobrush my teeth and get ready for work. But seriously, Jack. Thank you. This is...” He paused in the doorway, looking back at the ridiculous, overwhelming, beautiful feast. At Jack standing there looking uncertain and hopeful. “This is the most elaborate breakfast anyone’s ever made me. Even if I don’t know what to do with a full roasted boar.”
He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Jack standing in a sea of food, staring after him.
Not a complete failure then, Jack thought. Small victories.
The familiars settled on various surfaces, watching their boss try to figure out modern courtship.
“He liked the hand pies,” Pip offered hopefully, retrieving his pumpkin-hat from the vegetables.
“He also said it was too much,” Bramble pointed out.
“But he said thank you,” Russet added. “And he called it sweet. That’s progress, surely?”
Jack looked at the feast he’d spent all night preparing. Sixty-three dishes. Hours of work. And Locke liked the hand pies. At least pumpkin the plump cat was enjoying himself on the sliced glazed ham without a care in the world.
Modern courtship was going to kill him.
Chapter Eight
Threedayslater,Jacktried again.
Rehearsal had been going well. Locke was getting more comfortable with his lines, more confident in his movements. Jack found himself watching from the wings even when he wasn’t in the scene, unable to look away from the way Locke’s face lit up when he got something right, the way he laughed with the other actors, easy and bright.
Jimmy called for a break. The cast scattered with some heading for the snack table, others outside for fresh air. The stage lights stayed on, casting dramatic shadows across the empty space.
Jack saw his chance.
He approached before Locke could leave the stage. “Wait.”
Locke turned, wiping sweat from his forehead. The stage lights made his two-toned eyes even more striking; he could turn his head and have soft golden eyes then turn another way and there was that flash of forest green, both focused on Jack with an attention that made something warm settle within.
“I have something for you.”
Locke’s expression shifted. Wary. Fond. A little exasperated. “Jack, you don’t have to give me anything.”
Jack pulled out the small ornamental box he’d been carrying in his robe pocket all day. The wood was warm from being close to his body, carved with patterns that would mean nothing to Locke but everything to Jack. Symbols from the Loam. Protection. Permanence.Mine.“It’s just a small trinket.”
Locke took it carefully, weighing it in his hands. Then he grinned, that sunshine smile that made Jack’s carefully controlled dignity waver. “Are you proposing to me Jack?”
If Jack could blush, he would have. The carved features shifted, flustered. “Just open the damn box.”
