Page 37 of Autumn Ritual

Slowing my steps, I paused to watch.

Beautiful. She was beautiful.

The flimsy tool in her hand with the orange handle bent as she tried to drag it through the thick flesh of the fruit. There was already a finished masterpiece, a bird sitting on a branch, off to the side. An untouched pumpkin, the largest of the three, waited its turn. The mess of sinew and seeds overflowed from two bowls, spilling on the plastic she’d laid on the wood flooring.

“Just freaking cut already!” Sara hissed.

She smacked the heel of her palm against the tool.

Leaning against the archway, I crossed my arms over my chest. Adorable. Here she was, an angelic figure, carving pumpkins late at night. I would have watched her through the window, but the table and curve of the counter hid the scene from view. Plus, the late September night was cool. The wind had a way of cutting to the bone.

Sara let out a strangled growl, smacked the pumpkin, and sat back, sweeping a hand over her hair.

Keeping my voice low, disguising it the best I could, I spoke. “Boo.”

Rearing back, Sara screamed.

She slapped her hand over her mouth a second later, breathing hard through her nose but shooting daggers at me from those glittering dark brown eyes.

I smirked and tugged the cap lower, keeping my face hidden. The girl who wasn’t scared of much just made the most delicious noise.

We were going to have to do that again.

She sagged forward, breathing hard. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. I mean, I hoped—” she gestured to the candle and the dim light “—but I wasn’t sure.”

I hadn’t visited her yet this week. Work kept me busy, and by the time I managed to drive out to Lake Georgina, I was loath to wake her. A writer needed her sleep, and Sara was by nature an early bird.

So, I’d watched.

Every hour I could spare, I’d been here.

“A little early to be carving the fruit, isn’t it?” I rasped.

Sara scowled and adjusted her glasses. “Pumpkins are veggies.”

A smile tipped my lips. “No, angel, they’re not.”

“Wanna bet?” Sara sat up straight and gave me a defiant look. “I’ll google it right now, mister.”

A dangerous energy thrummed through my veins. “What’s the wager?”

Sara tapped her fingers against her knee. “If I’m right, you help me work through a sagging middle.”

“Sagging middle?”

“Of my book.”

Me. She wanted my help with her book. I wasn’t sure how much help I could be, but if that was what she wanted, so be it. Anything for her.

I nodded. “And if I’m right?”

I was.

I’d already had this conversation with Drusilla, when the mafia princess was convinced the gourds and squash were all vegetables. They might be served at a meal as such, but botanically, they were classified as fruit. It was almost unfair making this bet, but I didn’t gamble. Not unless I knew I would win.

And with Sara involved, winning was a necessity.

“Whatever you want,” Sara said simply.