Chapter 4 #2
Then she stands up and walks back inside, and I know what's about to happen.
I'm moving before I consciously decide to move, locking my front door and crossing the sidewalk in four long strides. Through Quinn's front window, I can already hear Miranda's voice rising, sharp and cutting.
"—completely unacceptable. Do you have any idea how many bakeries would kill for coverage in my column? And you serve me a cold pastry?"
Quinn's voice, tight but still professional, "Ma'am, all our pastries are baked fresh this morning. If there's an issue with temperature—"
"The issue is that your quality control is clearly nonexistent. This is room temperature at best, and the glaze is crystallized. Frankly, I've had better pastries from grocery store bakeries."
I pull open the front door of the bakery just as Quinn's customer service smile develops a dangerous edge. The small bell above the door chimes, and both women turn to look at me.
"I'm sorry, we're in the middle of—" Miranda starts.
I walk past her without acknowledging her existence, moving directly to where Quinn stands behind her counter. Her eyes widen slightly as I approach, and I see her posture shift from defensive to confused.
"Lanek, what—"
"Forgot my order," I say calmly, holding her gaze. "The special one we discussed."
"We didn't discuss—"
"The special order," I repeat, putting slight emphasis on the words. "For the private event."
I watch understanding flicker across her face, though she has no idea what I'm actually doing. But she's smart enough to recognize a rescue attempt when she sees one, and after a moment's hesitation, she nods slowly.
"Right. The special order. Give me just a moment to finish with this customer."
"Take your time." I lean against the counter, deliberately taking up space, and finally turn my attention to Miranda. "You're Miranda Long."
She draws herself up, clearly pleased to be recognized. "I am. And you are?"
"Lanek Grieves. I own the butcher shop next door." I gesture vaguely toward my shop, then let my gaze drift to the half-eaten pastry she's still holding. "That's the apple Danish, right? The one with the Calvados glaze?"
"It's cold," Miranda says flatly.
"It's supposed to be." I look at Quinn. "You use the French technique, right? Where the glaze crystallizes as it sets? Gives it that distinctive crackle texture?"
Quinn looks at me for a beat, then rallies beautifully. "Exactly. It's a traditional method. The crystallization is intentional."
"Hmm." Miranda looks at the pastry with slightly less certainty. "Well, it's still not what I expected."
"Because you expected grocery store quality," I say pleasantly. "Which is what you compared it to."
Her eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"
"You said you've had better pastries from grocery store bakeries. Which tells me you're judging this against mass-produced, preservative-filled products designed to stay soft for days. This is an artisanal bakery. The quality is completely different."
"I know the difference between—"
"Do you?" I straighten from the counter, and the movement reminds everyone in the room exactly how much physical space I occupy. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you walked in here looking for problems instead of actually tasting what you were served."
The temperature in the room drops several degrees. Miranda's face flushes, and I see her grip tighten on her designer bag.
"I am a professional food critic with fifteen years of—"
"And I'm a professional butcher who works with artisanal food producers every single day.
I know quality when I see it, and Quinn's work is exceptional.
" I let my gaze travel deliberately around the bakery, the gleaming display cases, the carefully arranged pastries, the warm lighting that makes everything look inviting.
"This place has better quality control than half the restaurants you've given glowing reviews to. "
"You have no idea what restaurants I've—"
"I read your column," I interrupt. "You gave four stars to that new fusion place on Fifth Street despite the fact that they're serving previously frozen fish as 'fresh catch' and marking it up three hundred percent.
I know because I refused to supply them when they asked me to lie about the sourcing. "
Miranda's mouth opens, then closes. She looks at Quinn, then back at me, clearly trying to regain control of the situation.
"This is highly irregular—"
"So is ambushing a small business owner with a bad review based on your personal temperature preferences." I cross my arms over my chest. "If you have legitimate concerns about food safety or quality, by all means, share them. But if you're just here to flex your critical power, there's the door."
For a long moment, nobody moves. Miranda's face cycles through several shades of red, and I can practically see her weighing her options.
Making an enemy of a food critic is risky business, but I meant every word I said.
Quinn's work is exceptional, and I'm not going to stand here and watch someone tear her down because a pastry wasn't served at the exact temperature expected.
Finally, Miranda straightens her bag on her shoulder and lifts her chin. "I don't appreciate being spoken to this way."
"And I don't appreciate watching you bully my neighbor."
"I was providing professional feedback—"
"You were being cruel." The words come out flat and final. "There's a difference."
She glares at me for another beat, then turns sharply on her expensive heels and walks toward the door. She pauses with her hand on the handle, looking back at Quinn.
"You should know that associating with defensive, aggressive neighbors doesn't reflect well on your business."
Then she's gone, the door swinging shut behind her with enough force to make the bell jangle frantically.
The silence that follows feels enormous.
I turn to find Quinn staring at me with an expression I can't quite read. Her cheeks are flushed, her hands gripped tight on her counter, and for a moment I think she's going to yell at me for overstepping, for interfering, for making everything worse.
Instead, she reaches over and very deliberately flips the lock on her front door.
The deadbolt slides home with a solid, final click that echoes through the quiet bakery.
"What," Quinn says slowly, her voice shaking slightly, "was that?"