Page 8

Jax

If you had told me a week ago I’d be dining in some stranger’s house, naked under his bathrobe, I would not have believed you. And I certainly wouldn’t have believed you if you said I’d turn into a pumpkin by dawn, but here we are.

With the lights on, Mason’s kitchen looks a lot different. For one, I can make out the nineties vineyard decor that looks embedded around the edge of the top of the walls, which doesn’t fit the rest of his sleek, minimalistic vibe at all, but something about it is … soothing.

He could have changed it, I’m sure. Or at least taken it down, but for some reason it remains like an eyesore amidst all the grey, white, and black of his living room which blends right into the kitchen.

I push my quinoa around on my plate a bit, stealing a glance at the perfect specimen across the other end of the table.

The light from overhead shines on him like a golden halo, his dark hair falling in his face.

I feel like I should say something, but I also don’t want to jinx whatever is going on right now and risk pushing the man over the edge.

I mean, it’s one thing to discover a naked man in your apartment; it’s another to have to contend with the fact he’s a literal gourd. Well, half the time anyway.

Shit, how long am I going to be doing this? I pause as the thought lands.

I vaguely remember the legend of Stingy Jack talking about a handful of days to prove himself, but I can’t remember how long that was. After all, I didn’t pay much attention to the stories on account of they were just stories.

I should have paid better attention.

“Everything okay? You’ve barely touched your food,” Mason says calmly, catching my gaze.

I feel my cheeks flush as I shake my head, realizing I must look like a complete idiot staring off into space.

“Oh, I, uh …” I try to find my words like a functional human, but it’s kind of hard given the way Mason’s looking at me right now.

His dark amber eyes glisten underneath the incandescent lighting, and the tee shirt he’s wearing does nothing to hide his perfectly sculpted muscles or the pronounced vein underneath his bicep.

His lips part just the slightest, and my gaze falls to their perfect shape, remembering his mouth inches from my skin. His warm breath and his desperate moans echo through my mind.

Fuck, now I’m hard. Again.

I clear my throat, doing my best to fight off a wildly inappropriate boner right now.

Not helping the “I’m not a pervert” case very much, are you, Jax?

“No, it’s great,” I lie, because really it isn’t. Granted, it tastes a hundred times better than the granola bar, what with all the feta cheese and vegetables added in, but it’s still not exactly what I would call dinner .

Then again, my idea of dinner is usually something with a hefty portion of meat and carbs.

Or pizza.

But despite my personal tastes, I can acknowledge Mason’s temporary generosity, and my grandma raised me to never be rude, especially in the presence of a host.

“I mean, it’s weird, right? I get it,” I say as I shovel some quinoa and veggies into my mouth.

Mason’s shoulders relax just the slightest, and he resumes his own shoveling, though he looks far more graceful than any man should doing such a task.

I swear, he’s so fucking hot he could sell me ice in the middle of winter, and I’d gobble that shit up.

Mason doesn’t say anything, so I continue.

“Like, I know it sounds crazy, and I didn’t think it was possible either, but …”

Mason sets his silverware down, giving me his full attention. His eyebrows furrow, and for a moment I feel the gooey-warm, mushy pumpkin gut feeling.

My body flushes with heat as my cock twitches beneath his robe.

“But what, Jax?”

The way in which he says my name, the way his voice drags out the X … Fuck me. I want to hear my name on his tongue over and over again …

With one hand I adjust my unruly cock, and the other I use to stab some stray pieces of red pepper.

“One minute I’m fighting with my grandparents about my damn love life, and the next …” I grip my fork a little tighter, even as I set it down. “The next, I’m screaming, and no one can hear me because I’m a pumpkin.”

Mason’s lips twist, the hint of a smile playing at his face.

“I tried to tell you, but uh … you know, apparently pumpkins can’t talk.”

Mason cocks his head to the side, his gaze appraising me.

“What?” I ask, bringing my fingers to my face. “Do I have something on my face?”

Mason shakes his head as he leans back in his chair.

“No,” he says, biting his lip. Suddenly, I feel very nervous. I can’t tell if he’s going to tell me to get the fuck out or to get on my fucking knees, and that’s a very drastic difference.

“Then what is it?” I ask as I get up from my chair, if only to take my attention off my fucking cock with a mind of its own. I need to move. I need to do something.

So I grab my plate, and rise. I stop a few inches away from him and move to grab his. I watch the way his gaze follows my hand, the way his eyes rove over my form, and then it hits me.

“I hope you don’t mind, but, uh, I’ve been using your robe.”

Mason bites his lip again. At this angle, I’m acutely aware that his face is level with my stupid cock, but thankfully, the robe is thick and fluffy enough to hide any evidence of what’s really going on below.

“It, uh, looks good on you,” he says, his cheeks reddening. “I mean, the color.” He swallows. It’s only then that I realize as my gaze dips to the sleeve, that the robe is the same color as a …

“Pumpkin,” I say, my lips turning up in the corner.

“The salesperson said it was creamsicle, actually.”

I roll my eyes at the words of a woman who clearly doesn’t know that creamsicle and pumpkin are two entirely different shades of orange, stifling a chuckle. A feeling of comfort washes over me at his humorous tone. So far, so good.

I move to pick up his plate, but he stops me with his hand on my wrist. The touch of his heated palm, his soft fingertips is jarring.

Just like when he’d touched me at the farm, or when he touched me last night, the jolt of energy is back.

“Stop, you don’t have to—”

“I mean you cooked,” I say, my voice cracking just the slightest. A shockwave courses through me, and I pull away, taking his dishes with me.

“Seriously, it’s the least I can do.” I bring the dishes to the sink, setting about to wash them if only to keep myself busy.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Mason might be playing nice host right now, but he could easily ask me to leave, or he could still call the cops. Not that I think he’d do either, even though I can’t explain why I think that, but still, I know I can’t just trust him because he’s hot.

And to be clear, he is very hot . But I’m also a stranger claiming to be a gourd.

I’d call the cops on my ass, too.

I close my eyes, knowing what I need to do, even though I don’t want to.

But now that we’re both awake, both somewhat on the same wavelength, I know I need to respect Mason’s space, and I probably should get home to see my grandparents and figure out what to do about this curse.

“Do you like apple pie?” Mason asks, his words pulling me from my thoughts. I finish drying my plate, turning to look at him as he holds a box of pie in one hand and a tub of ice cream in the other.

My gaze flashes between the sugary goodness and his perfect face. My eyes travel once again to those pouty, plump lips. I swallow hard at the sight of my two favorite things.

“I love apple pie,” I say softly. Biting my own lip, I attempt to stifle my craving for both the delectable desert and the man in front of me.

He offers me a sweet smile that makes my insides twist with the warm, gooey mushy feeling again. “Me, too,” he says as he sets both items on the table. He nods to me. “To your left, there are dessert plates in the top cabinet.”

I don’t waste a second as I turn, giving him my back as I open the cupboard and find the plates in question.

Simple, white square plates trimmed in gold.

I set them out on the table, Mason brushes past me to grab fresh silverware from the drawer.

His kitchen isn’t terribly big, and with both of us in the same room, touching one another is damn near unavoidable.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling both a flush of heat to my face and a burst of energy to my system. My stupid, unruly cock twitches from the proximity, and I do my best to adjust my position so he won’t notice.

His amber eyes meet mine, and I realize now that I’m standing right next to him that we’re nearly the same height. I might have a few inches on him, but not enough to consider myself bigger by any means.

And the way he’s looking at me right now … Fuck!

“It’s fine,” he says, his voice a bit raspy.

I shift my weight as I move past him. I slide my hands into the stolen robe, cursing as I realize the inevitable is upon me.

For starters, I can’t stay here, living like a nomad, and I’m going to have to go home at some point if only because I can’t live in the guy’s creamsicle fluffy robe.

Which I came in last night.

My entire body heats as I realize I should probably tell him this thing needs washing.

“I, uh … I should probably shower before I—”

“Oh, okay,” Mason says, clutching silverware to his chest.

“I mean, if it’s okay with you.” I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling like I’ve put myself on the spot because I know what I should tell him, but now that he’s looking at me, those perfect biceps bulging out of his sleeves, those glittering amber eyes staring back at me, that perfect, pouty mouth open just the slightest.

I really am fucking cursed.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll just be here, with my pie.” He blinks. “Oh! The bathroom, it’s …”

“I know where it is,” I say sheepishly, avoiding his gaze.

“Oh,” is all he says, and there is a strange sort of tension that befalls us, and I’m more than glad to get away from it.

I smile as I head towards the bathroom. When I’m behind the door, only then do I let out a deep sigh of relief. “Okay, Jax, you can do this. Just get a shower, and …” And what? Ask Hot Pumpkin Whisperer to do what exactly? Take my naked ass home to Grandpa?

Even I know that is problematic. Not only can I not take the sinfully fluffy robe I’ve been living in with me, but showing up naked on my grandparent’s doorstep after being a pumpkin—Scratch that, as a pumpkin—makes my insides swirl with anxiety.

No, we’d have to stop somewhere first, obviously, or I could just ask him to grab me something so I could change.

I put the thought out of my mind, instead focusing on the task at the moment. A part of me feels like I’m being watched somehow, despite the fact I know I’m alone.

And I’m also certain if Mason was in this bathroom, there’d be no way he could keep his presence a secret. We’d both be squished together, unless we were in the shower. That thing is roomy as fuck.

I groan as my stupid cock twitches, deciding to finally remove my—er, Mason’s—robe. My cock springs free, bouncing back like a damn rubber band. I can’t remember the last time I was this fucking horny, to this extent.

Seriously, between my pumpkin goo-gasms and my dick that can’t seem to stay soft while in Mason’s proximity, I am both annoyed and hard as hell.

I drop the robe over the side of the sink before finding my way into the shower, relishing once again the feel of the warm water spraying me from all angles.

I fall back against the tile, letting it rain on me as I take my cock in my hands, my thumb sliding over my sensitive slit.

I can already feel the beginnings of my precum, warm and sticky.

I close my eyes, groaning in both frustration and desperation.

I know there’s only one way to get rid of this, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel guilty as fuck about it.

About everything, really.

Mason’s been nothing but nice, caring, even, despite the fact he didn’t know I was … well, me. But even after he stumbled on me today, naked in his bedroom, he’s been decidedly not an asshole, even though I know he should be.

The last thing I’d do if I found a naked guy in my bedroom is serve him dinner and pie.

Panic floods me as the truth makes its way through my psyche again.

I need to leave, I need to get back home and figure out what to do about this damn jack-o-lantern shifting thing.

But right now, all I can do is focus on the warm water on my skin and my throbbing cock in my hand.

I barely hear the door open.