Chapter 3
QUINN
Ihang up the phone and stand in my bakery for a full thirty seconds, trying to process what just happened.
He apologized.
By leaving meat on my door.
The wedding cake sits on my work counter, one entire tier completely destroyed where I dropped the piping bag. Buttercream smeared across what was supposed to be a pristine cascade of hand-piped roses. Hours of work reduced to something that looks like it survived a natural disaster.
I press my palms flat against the cool marble surface and count to ten. Then twenty. Then I give up on numbers entirely and grab my phone to call the bride, because there's no salvaging this mess in time for the noon pickup.
The conversation goes about as well as expected.
She's understanding, which somehow makes it worse.
She suggests we downsize to two tiers instead of three, and I promise her a full refund on the top layer plus a complimentary dessert table for her reception.
By the time I hang up, my customer service smile has calcified into something that probably looks more like a grimace.
I turn back to the ruined cake and seriously consider throwing the entire thing in the trash. But waste makes my skin crawl, so instead I carefully salvage what I can, scraping the good portions into a container for the food bank pickup tomorrow.
The steak sits in my commercial fridge like an accusation.
Forty-five days dry-aged. Prime wagyu. The marbling is genuinely obscene, fat running through the deep red muscle in delicate white rivers that probably cost more per pound than my rent.
I know this because I looked it up on my phone while the bride was processing her disappointment, because apparently self-flagellation is my new hobby.
It's beautiful.
I hate that it's beautiful.
I hate that he clearly put thought into this, that somewhere in his massive, bone-saw-wielding skull, he genuinely believed this was an appropriate gesture. A peace offering. A courtship gift, if the internet search results about Orc cultural practices are even remotely accurate.
The search history on my phone now includes phrases like "Orc mating rituals" and "traditional meat offerings significance," which is definitely not how I planned to spend my morning.
I should throw it away.
I should absolutely, one hundred percent throw this obscenely expensive piece of meat directly into the dumpster and be done with it.
Instead, I carefully wrap it in butcher paper—because of course he provided butcher paper, the show-off—and tuck it into the back of my personal fridge. For later. When I'm less furious and more capable of appreciating fine food without wanting to hurl it at someone's head.
By the time I finish reconstructing a passable two-tier version of the wedding cake, it's nearly ten AM. My back aches from hunching over the piping work, and I have buttercream under my fingernails despite three rounds of hand-washing.
The bone saw starts up again at 10:07.
I know the exact time because I'm watching the clock when the grinding shriek tears through my kitchen, rattling the mixing bowls on their shelf and sending a fresh wave of rage straight up my spine.
He said he'd be more careful.
He promised.
I set down my piping bag with extraordinary care, smoothing my apron with hands that definitely aren't shaking from fury. The industrial fan I ordered on express delivery yesterday sits in its box by the back door, and I've never been more grateful for same-day shipping in my entire life.
It takes me twenty minutes to assemble, another ten to position it at the perfect angle facing the shared ventilation grate that connects our two shops. The thing is massive, the kind of high-powered commercial unit designed to move serious air volume in restaurant kitchens.
I drag a fifty-pound bag of bread flour over, position it directly in the fan's path, and cut a small corner off the bag.
When I flip the switch, the results are immediately, spectacularly satisfying.
A white cloud of flour billows up and out, caught by the powerful blast of air and channeled directly toward the vent. Within seconds, a fine powder is coating everything within a six-foot radius, including me. I watch the white fog disappear into the ventilation system and smile.
Then I connect my phone to the portable Bluetooth speaker I usually reserve for wedding receptions, pull up my most aggressively cheerful pop playlist, and crank the volume to maximum.
The opening synth beats of a particularly bouncy dance track explode into the alley, and I feel a savage satisfaction bloom as I imagine Lanek trying to concentrate on butchering with this particular audio assault rattling his workspace.
I leave it running and march back inside to finish the wedding cake.
The first sign that my retaliation might have worked a little too well comes forty minutes later when Mrs. Ling from the dry cleaners stops by to ask if everything is okay, because apparently my speaker is loud enough to be heard three shops down.
I dial it back slightly, just enough to avoid an actual noise complaint, and return to piping delicate sugar pearls along the cake's bottom tier.
The bone saw has been suspiciously quiet since I started my assault.
Good.
Maybe he's finally getting the message.
The music switches to a particularly upbeat track about summer romance and dance floors, all soaring vocals and relentless electronic beats. I'm halfway through the second chorus, carefully positioning a cascade of edible flowers, when the music cuts off mid-note.
Just stops.
Dead silence except for the residual hum of the industrial fan still running outside.
I freeze, piping bag suspended in midair, and slowly turn toward the back security window.
The window that I opened earlier to help vent some of the heat from the ovens.
The window that suddenly frames a forearm the approximate size and color of a small tree trunk, deep green skin decorated with intricate black tribal tattoos. Thick fingers wrapped around my speaker, which he's currently holding through the window like it weighs nothing at all.
I watch, frozen in place, as the massive hand calmly unplugs the auxiliary cord from my phone.
"Lanek."
My voice comes out remarkably steady considering my heart is currently attempting to jackhammer its way through my ribcage. I set the piping bag down and cross my arms, which is difficult when they want to shake.
The arm doesn't withdraw. If anything, it extends further into my space, setting the now-silent speaker down on the stainless steel prep table just inside the window. His hand is genuinely enormous, dwarfing the equipment surrounding it.
"Your flour clogged my ventilation system," his voice rumbles from outside, carrying through the open window with that same low, deliberate quality that makes every word feel weighted. "My entire shop is white. The customers thought it was snowing inside."
"Oh no," I say flatly. "How terrible for you."
"Quinn." There's something in the way he says my name, a warning wrapped in patience, that makes my spine straighten automatically. "This is childish."
"Childish?" I take three steps toward the window, which brings me close enough to see more than just his arm.
His face appears in the opening, and even crouched down to window-height, he's still massive.
Flour dusts his dark hair and clings to his eyebrows, making him look absurdly ghost-like against his deep green skin.
"You woke me up with a bone saw at five AM.
You destroyed my wedding cake. You left raw meat like some kind of deranged cat bringing home a kill, and I'm the one being childish? "
"The steak was not raw. It was carefully aged and—"
"I don't care!" The words burst out louder than intended, and his eyes widen slightly.
Not in anger. Something else. Something that looks almost like fascination.
"So what about the marbling or the aging process or whatever Orc cultural significance you think it has.
We're neighbors, Lanek. Neighbors. That means we coexist professionally without leaving biological matter on each other's property or starting up industrial equipment before the sun rises! "
"It was 6:15."
"Still dark!"
"Barely."
I make a sound that's half shriek, half laugh, and grab the nearest thing I can reach, which happens to be a bag of confectioner's sugar. "Get your arm out of my bakery right now or I swear I will dump this entire bag on your head."
He doesn't move. Just watches me with those dark eyes, utterly calm, like I'm a particularly entertaining television program he's enjoying. Flour still dusts his shoulders and clings to the thick column of his neck.
"You're covered in flour," he observes mildly.
I glance down. He's right. White powder coats my vintage floral dress, my apron, probably my hair. I look like I lost a fight with a bag of all-purpose.
"Your point?"
"We match."
The observation is so absurd, delivered with such genuine sincerity, that I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I tighten my grip on the confectioner's sugar and take another step forward.
"Lanek," I say, forcing the word through gritted teeth while my knuckles turn white around the bag of sugar. "Move. Your. Arm."
He doesn't even blink. Just keeps that massive forearm wedged through my security window like it belongs there, utterly unmoved by my threat or my tone.
"Will you turn off the fan?" he asks, his voice maddeningly reasonable, like we're negotiating the terms of a perfectly normal business transaction instead of having a turf war through a metal window frame.
The audacity. The absolute, unmitigated gall of this man.
"No," I snap back.
His expression doesn't change. Still calm. Still patient. Still infuriatingly present in my space. "Then no," he says simply, as if that settles the matter entirely.