Page 19 of Sky and the Grumpy Troll

Hoalla’s eyes went wide and her hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, he’s so cute and small. A human?”

“I’m not small, I’m perfectly proportioned. And average-sized for a Chinese-American guy.” Sky bit into his cinnamon square and his eyes widened. “Holy shit. Why does everything in this town taste so good?”

Hoalla clapped her hands. “Oh, is that from Bonnie’s across the street? I hope you got one of her cherry turnovers. Those are my favorites.”

Sky waved his package. “I did! Hi, I’m Sky, by the way.”

“I’m Hoalla, the innkeeper, and you are precious. If you’d both like to get settled in, your room is upstairs. It’s quite cozy.”

Sky held out his hand for a handshake, then pulled it back. “Oh, wait. I’m sticky from this cinnamon thing. Don’t want to risk getting sugar on your beautiful dress. We’ll just wave.” He waved.

She laughed, clearly delighted, and handed me a key. “The room is on the second floor. It’s the first door on the left. I fear there’s only one bed.” That was delivered with an exaggerated wink that made me regret every time I’d ever written a book where the couple found themselves in an inn with only one bed.

Sky popped the last bite of his cinnamon square into his mouth and snatched the key out of my hand, jogging up the stairs ahead of me.

I followed him at a more sensible pace, lifting the satchel I’d packed for both of us in one hand and cradling Poppy’s basket in the other. The stairs were narrow and steep and put Sky’s cute rear end at eye-level. Sky fawned over the ‘old timey’ key and unlocked the room, gasping at the big bed. He set his packet of pastries down and launched himself at the mattress, groaning as he sank in.

“I didn’t know wagon rides made you so tired. This mattress is almost as good as memory foam.”

“I don’t know what that is.” My fingers itched to reach out and settle his fidgety energy, but I resisted. Something had happened while he was reading The Stonewall Bride, but I wasn’t sure what.

Perhaps he’d hated the book. Perhaps the sex scenes had been too much. He’d already told me he had no interest in women’s bodies, and The Stonewall Bride was explicit about Kethara’s. I should have steered him toward The Greymere Widow instead, which had no romance at all, only grief, with a lighthouse keeper who talked to seabirds.

Although that might have been worse, given his current predicament.

I busied myself with Poppy, going down to the wagon to bring up the clean sandbox I used for travel and prepare a small bowl of water. Then she required her evening fish treat and a specific arrangement of blankets before she would consent to sleep in an unfamiliar room.

Poppy ate her fish, circled twice, and settled into her blankets with a satisfied chirp. At least one of us had our evening sorted.

“You spoil that cat,” Sky said from the bed. He’d pulled off his sneakers and was sitting cross-legged, watching me.

“She has expectations. I meet them.”

“You exceed them.”

“Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t spoil her. She is good to me. Keeps me company.” I stood, brushed my hands on my trousers, and faced the bed. Sky had already claimed the left side, which was closer to the fire.

“Because Bryndala can’t?” he asked quietly.

“No, I did this even before—” I caught myself and shot him a look. “Where did you hear that name?”

He shrugged. “You said it once, I think. You don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to.” The big troll bed dwarfed him. The quilt pooled around him, his borrowed shirt hung off one shoulder, his dark hair was messy from the wind, and I needed to stop cataloging details like a man taking notes for a novel.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off my boots and removed my coat. I tugged my shirt over my head because I could not sleep in it, and Sky went quiet behind me.

I kept my trousers on and loosened the laces. I got under the quilt and lay on my back, rigid as a plank, arms at my sides, staring at the ceiling.

Sky blew out the candles. The room went dark except for the low glow of the fire. The mattress was absurdly comfortable. I would never admit this.

“Moerrven?”

“Mm.”

“You’re lying there like someone’s laid you out for a funeral.”

“I’m resting.”

“Every muscle in your body is clenched.”