Bitten By The Grumpy Orc

Chapter 1

ROGAN

The goat has my duffel bag by the strap.

"Hey. Hey." I drop the last box from the truck bed and lunge. The goat sidesteps with balletic precision, dragging my life's possessions through a mud puddle that shouldn't exist.

"Houdini, no!" A voice from somewhere behind the crooked bistro sign.

Houdini does not care. Houdini chews.

I grab the strap and tug. The goat's yellow eyes lock onto mine. Challenge accepted. We're in a full standoff when a woman in overalls jogs around the corner, ponytail swinging.

"He thinks it's a toy." She doesn't sound apologetic so much as resigned.

"It's a bag."

"He's not picky."

I yank harder. Houdini plants his hooves. My boots slip in the mud. This is my life now.

"Houdini!" The woman claps twice, sharp and efficient. The goat releases the strap, trots to her side, and bleats smugly.

I straighten, wiping muck off my jeans. My favorite band tee, vintage, irreplaceable, now bears a streak of rural Pennsylvania across the logo.

"Welcome to Pine Hollow." She sticks out a hand. "Maya Reeves. I run the farm stand two roads over."

Her grip could crack walnuts.

"Rogan Thorn." I nod toward the bistro behind me, its sign dangling at a drunken angle. One shutter hangs by a single hinge. The window boxes are empty except for dead geraniums and what looks like a bird's nest. "New owner."

"Heard you were coming." She tips her head, assessing. "Cora's nephew."

The name lands like a hand on my shoulder.

I press my palm against the apron pocket where Aunt Cora's battered linen square sits folded.

Four years of city kitchens, a dozen burns, one spectacular flameout, and this is what I've got left.

Her bistro. Her mess. Her belief I could do something with it.

No pressure.

"That's me."

Maya's gaze flicks to the building. "Place needs work."

"Noticed."

"Roof leaks in the back corner. Stove's temperamental. Basement floods if it rains hard." She ticks off disasters on her fingers like she's reading a grocery list.

"You're really selling the dream here."

"Just figured you should know before you unpack." She nudges Houdini away from my truck tire. "Cora was good people. Kept this place running on duct tape and charm for twenty years. Town loved her."

Past tense. I swallow the knot in my throat and hoist the duffel over my shoulder. Goat spit darkens the canvas.

"Yeah. She was the best."

Maya studies me for a beat, then nods. "Need help hauling boxes?"

"I'm good."

"Suit yourself." She whistles, and Houdini trots after her down the gravel drive. Over her shoulder: "Farmers market's Sunday mornings if you need produce. Tell them I sent you. They'll only overcharge a little."

Then she's gone, and it's just me and the bistro.

The building looks worse up close. Whitewash peeling in strips. Front door warped enough that I have to shoulder it open. Inside smells like must, old wood, and the ghost of a thousand meals. Chairs stacked on tables. Dust motes swimming in the afternoon light.

I drop my bag and stand there, listening to the floorboards creak under my boots.

What the hell am I doing?

The kitchen is a crime scene.

I push through the swinging door and stop dead. Stainless steel prep table coated in grime. Range hood thick with grease. A tower of mismatched pots teetering beside the sink. Shelves sagging under the jars, cans, boxes, all jumbled together like someone played Jenga with the inventory and lost.

I pick up the nearest jar. Apricot chutney. Expiration date two years ago.

Fantastic.

The walk-in fridge hums in the corner, angry and arthritic.

I yank the handle. Cold air gusts out, along with the smell of something that died and made peace with it.

A carton of cream, solidified into cottage cheese.

Vegetables in various stages of mummification.

A foil-wrapped brick that could be butter or could be a bioweapon.

I slam the door and lean against it.

The ledger sits on the little desk by the back exit, spine cracked, pages swollen from humidity. I flip it open. Cora's handwriting loops across columns, income, expenses, notes in the margins. Sold out of pot roast again, make extra Thursday. Elsie's birthday, comp the pie.

The numbers get tighter toward the end. Red ink starts showing up. I trace a finger down the final page and find the total.

Ominous doesn't cover it.

I close the book and scrub a hand over my face. The scar on my jaw courtesy of a mandoline and teenage overconfidence, itches under my palm.

"Okay." My voice bounces off the tile. "Okay."

I'm good under pressure. Thrive in it, even. Burned-out city brigade chef to small-town rescue mission? I've done harder pivots. Probably.

I roll up my sleeves and start pulling jars off the shelves. Expired tomato paste. Cornstarch turned to cement. A tin of anchovies with a best-by date from when I was still in culinary school.

But then tucked behind a bag of fossilized lentils, I find it.

A jar of Cora's plum chutney. Hand-labeled, wax-sealed. I crack it open and the smell hits me: cinnamon, star anise, a whisper of black pepper. I dip a finger in and taste.

Oh.

Sweet and sharp and complex, the plums cooked down until they're almost jam but not quite, the spice building slow and warm at the back of my throat. It's perfect. It's Cora—bold and comforting and unapologetically herself.

I look at the jar.

Then I grab a saucepan.

Ten minutes later I've got the chutney warming on the stove with a splash of red wine I found in the cupboard, a squeeze of lemon juice, a pinch of brown sugar. I taste, adjust, taste again. The sauce thickens, glossy and dark.

I find a hunk of bread in the freezer, stale but salvageable, and toast it over the gas flame until it's charred at the edges. Slather the sauce on top.

The first bite is ridiculous. Smoky, tangy, sweet. The kind of thing you'd charge fifteen dollars for at a wine bar and people would Instagram it.

I lean on the counter and chew slowly, letting the flavors settle.

Okay. This place has bones.

The door swings open behind me.

"Knock knock." A woman in a floral blouse and pearls steps in, smiling like she's selling something. "You must be Rogan. I'm Elsie Harper. Mayor, unofficial welcome wagon, and president of the Pine Hollow Preservation Society."

I swallow and brush my hands on my jeans. "Mayor. Hi."

"Cora spoke about you often." Her gaze sweeps the kitchen at the pile of expired goods, the lone saucepan on the stove, the general apocalypse, and her smile doesn't waver. "Big plans for the bistro?"

"Working on it."

"Wonderful. The town's very invested, you know. This place is a landmark. Cora fed half of Pine Hollow at one point or another." She clasps her hands. "We're all rooting for you."

The weight of expectation settles on my shoulders like a wet coat.

"That's... great. Thanks."

"Of course, there are some community standards to consider. Noise ordinances, health inspections, the historical character of the building..." She's still smiling. "I'm sure you'll navigate it all beautifully. Do let me know if you need guidance."

Guidance. Right.

She spots the toast. "Oh, is that Cora's chutney?"

"Yeah. Found a jar."

"May I?"

I hand it over. She takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and her expression softens.

"She always did have a gift." A pause. "I hope you do, too."

Then she's gone, leaving the door swinging and the faint scent of lavender perfume.

I look around the kitchen. The mess. The busted equipment. The legacy I've inherited along with the deed.

My hand goes to the apron pocket. Cora's fabric, worn soft from years of use.

You got me into this, Auntie.

I grab another jar off the shelf and get back to work.

The health inspector shows up at seven a.m. on day three.

I'm elbow-deep in the grease trap when I hear the knock. Sharp, official, the kind that says I have a clipboard and I'm not afraid to use it.

"Just a second!" I holler, yanking my arm free. Grease splatters across my boots.

The woman at the door wears a county polo and an expression that could curdle milk. She holds up a laminated ID.

"Robert Maris couldn't make it. I'm Sandra Mills, filling in." She steps past me without waiting for an invitation. "Let's start with the kitchen."

Of course we are.

I follow her in, watching her gaze sweep across the space. I've been scrubbing for two days straight. The range hood gleams. Prep table sanitized within an inch of its life. Floor mopped so hard I nearly took the finish off.

But the walk-in still wheezes like it's got pneumonia. The tiles near the dishwasher are cracked. And the basement, well. I haven't been brave enough to tackle the basement yet.

Mills grabs a thermometer and stabs it into the fridge. Frowns. Makes a note.

"Temperature's borderline."

"It's on my list."

"Needs to be forty degrees or below." She moves to the dry storage, eyeing the shelving. "These need to be six inches off the floor."

"They're five."

"Six is code."

I bite back a comment about municipal overreach and nod instead. "I'll adjust them."

She works through the space with surgical precision, pointing out violations I haven't had time to fix yet. Loose outlet cover. Missing hand soap dispenser in the staff bathroom. Vent filter clogged with God knows what.

By the time she's done, the violation list runs two pages.

"You've got thirty days to address these." She tears off my copy. "I'll be back for reinspection. If you're not compliant, you won't get your operating permit."

"Understood."

She pauses at the door, expression softening a fraction. "Cora was good people. I hope you can make this work."

Then she's gone, and I'm standing there with a list that might as well be a death sentence.

I crumple the paper, smooth it out again, and pin it to the corkboard beside the desk.

Thirty days.

Right.

The voicemail comes that afternoon while I'm rewiring the temperamental stove.