Page 67 of Not Another Happily Ever After

Someone’s there.I slip behind a tree, holding my breath as a tall figure steps into the moonlit clearing.

Frog.

What is he doing?I puzzle, trying to decipher his steps. His very clumsy steps.

He’s not wielding a sword or practicing to fight—at least not that I can tell. It almost looks as if he’s…dancing?

Or, attempting to.

I tuck myself in tightly between a crimson-covered thicket and a cobalt wrapped tree, pricking my fingers on their thorns as I watch. I’m utterly captivated by the knight’s impressive lack of balance and rhythm.

“One, two, three.” He turns, only for his boot to catch on his long cloak and send him stumbling sideways.

He catches himself, eyes wide as he scans the tree line, no doubt hoping the forest wasn’t witness to his failure. I wonder what he’d think if he knew I was.

I should dismiss myself. ‘Twould be the polite thing to do.The dignified thing to do.Instead, I duck behind the tree and bribe Buttons for his silence with some chin scratches.

The forest grows still. Quiet. I’m certain he’s going to hear my heart racing in my chest, when, after a moment, the shuffle and stumble of boots starts up again.

I sigh my relief as I steal another peek around the tree’s twisted trunk, just in time to see him try and fail again and again to get the steps right.

“This is pointless.” He exhales, casting his eyes up toward the moon.

I’ve never seen the knight so defeated.

“I don’t think he quite understands the premise of dancing,” I whisper to my little purring companion, who’s taken purchase on a branch above me, having decided the view from down here was no longer sufficient. Though, I dare say no view would be given the performance. “’Tis meant to be fun. Do you suppose he knows what fun is?” I ask, forgetting entirely that Buttons is a dragon, and as such, cannot talk.

But that also means he can’t stop me either.A sly smile plays at the corners of my mouth as an unruly idea comes to mind.

Frog stumbles once more, this time into a bush full of thistles.

“What am I even doing?” His voice breaks.

“It’s funny you should ask,” I tease, slipping slowly from the shadows. “I was wondering the same thing.”

Frog turns, pulling his cloak free from the rose-littered shrub. All the color drains from his face.

“Miss Sunday.”

My name lingers between us, spoken so softly it feels more like a confession than a greeting—though a confession to what, I remain uncertain.

“How long?” I ask.

Frog looks away. “Miss Sunday?—”

“How long have you been trying to learn these steps?”

His hands flex at his side. “You should be in the carriage.”

“The carriage you’re meant to be guarding?” I bite back a laugh.

His composure fractures almost instantly. His eyes widening just enough to give him away before darting back toward the ground.

“I…”

“You were just forgoing your duties to…teach yourself how to dance?” I assume, stepping into the spot he’s backed away from. “I could help with that, you know? You need only ask.”

He swallows hard, giving ground with every inch I step closer.