Chapter 9 #2
I arrive early, determined to set up my booth and maintain a perfectly professional distance from Lanek, only to discover that the event organizers, lovely, well-meaning, completely disorganized humans, have made a critical error.
"I'm so sorry, Quinn!" Sandra, the neighborhood association president, wrings her hands anxiously. "We overbooked the vendor slots and had to double up a few of the booths. You're paired with the new butcher shop. I hope that's okay?"
It is not okay.
It is the opposite of okay.
But I paste on my customer service smile and nod graciously because I am a professional and I do not scream at volunteers. "Of course. No problem at all."
Sandra looks relieved. "Wonderful! He's already setting up. Booth seven, right down there."
I follow her pointing finger and immediately want to walk into traffic.
Booth seven is a massive, double-wide tent.
One half is clearly mine—pastel bunting, a vintage lace tablecloth, and carefully arranged tiered displays for my macarons.
The other half is Lanek's, and he's currently unloading what appears to be an entire professional-grade smoker from the back of his truck.
He sees me and grins.
I'm going to kill him.
I march over, my heels clicking sharply on the asphalt, and plant myself directly in front of him. "Absolutely not."
"Good morning to you too, little baker."
"Do not 'little baker' me. You can't set up a smoker next to my macarons!"
He hefts a massive brisket wrapped in butcher paper onto the prep table with infuriating ease. "Why not?"
"Because smoke and delicate French pastries do not mix!"
"They're in the same booth. They'll be fine."
"They will not be fine! The flavor will transfer and they'll taste like—like—"
"Like perfectly smoked, artisanal brisket?" He unwraps the meat, revealing a gorgeous, mahogany-crusted slab that probably weighs more than I do. "Sounds like an improvement."
I'm going to commit a felony.
"Lanek, I'm serious. You need to move."
"Can't. Sandra already assigned the booths.
" He starts arranging his display with maddening precision, thick wooden cutting boards, gleaming chef's knives, small sample cups.
"Besides, I thought you wanted to keep things professional.
What could be more professional than two local business owners collaborating at a community event? "
The emphasis he puts on "professional" makes my teeth grind.
"This is sabotage."
"This is business." He finally looks at me, his dark eyes glittering with challenge. "Unless you'd prefer to discuss it somewhere more private?"
My traitorous body reacts immediately, heat pooling low in my belly at the implication. I shove the feeling down ruthlessly and lift my chin. "There's nothing to discuss."
"Then I guess we're booth partners."
He turns back to his setup, effectively dismissing me, and I'm left standing there clutching my box of macarons and seriously reconsidering my life choices.
Fine.
If he wants to play this game, I'll play.
I set up my display with aggressive precision, arranging my macarons in perfect geometric patterns, positioning my vintage cake stands at strategic angles. I'm hanging the final strand of pastel bunting when Lanek fires up the smoker.
Applewood smoke immediately fills the tent, thick and rich and completely overwhelming.
It curls through the air like a living thing, wrapping itself around my carefully arranged displays, seeping into the delicate shells of my macarons, infiltrating every corner of our shared space with its woody, savory presence.
"Oops," he says, not sounding even remotely apologetic. In fact, there's a distinct thread of amusement woven through that deep, rumbling voice of his.
I turn to face him with my absolute brightest, most saccharine smile plastered across my face.
"How clumsy of you," I say, my voice dripping with such exaggerated sweetness that it could probably cause cavities.
"I had no idea operating a smoker required such delicate precision.
It must be so terribly difficult for someone with your. .. considerable skills."
"I'm just doing my job, Quinn." He doesn't even look at me, just continues adjusting the vents on his smoker with those massive, tattooed hands, making minute alterations that absolutely do not require this much smoke production. The silver rings on his tusks catch the light as he speaks.
"Of course you are," I respond, my customer-service smile never wavering even as I fantasize about dumping an entire bag of powdered sugar over his ridiculous head. "And doing it so very, very well."
The first customers start arriving, and I slip seamlessly into my customer-service persona. I'm charming and bubbly and enthusiastically describing the flavor profiles of my rose-pistachio macarons when I notice every single person's attention drifting toward Lanek's side of the booth.
Because he's casually slicing brisket with a knife the size of my forearm, his large hands moving with surprising delicacy, and the smell is absolutely intoxicating.
"That smells amazing," one customer says, already wandering toward him.
"Thank you," Lanek rumbles. "Would you like a sample?"
Within minutes, there's a small crowd gathered around his cutting board, and I'm left standing alone next to my increasingly smoke-scented macarons.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
I'm a professional.
I adjust my display and try not to notice the way his shoulders flex when he carves, or the deep rumble of his laugh when someone compliments his technique, or the fact that he keeps glancing over at me with that insufferably smug expression.
By noon, I've sold exactly twelve macarons.
Lanek has sold out of brisket and started on a rack of ribs.
"Having a good day?" he asks during a brief lull, his tone absolutely dripping with false innocence.
"Wonderful," I lie through teeth so gritted I'm probably damaging my molars. "Business is absolutely booming. Can't you tell?"
He glances pointedly at my nearly untouched display, then back at me, one thick eyebrow rising slowly. "Your macarons look a little...smoky."
I feel my eye twitch. The delicate shells have indeed taken on a faint grey tinge from the barbecue haze that's been drifting across our shared space for the past three hours. They look like tiny, pastel-colored ash trays.
"They're rustic," I snap, straightening one of the affected cookies with far more aggression than necessary.
"They're inedible." His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, completely devoid of malice, which somehow makes it worse.
I'm about to tell him exactly where he can shove his brisket when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
"Well, well. If it isn't the neighborhood's cutest couple."
I turn to find Matt Ling, the owner of the overpriced wine bar two blocks over, grinning at us like he knows something we don't.
"We're not a couple," I say immediately.
"Could've fooled me. You two have been eye-fucking each other for the past hour."
Lanek makes a sound that might be a laugh.
I want to die.
"We're just sharing a booth," I explain tightly. "Completely professional."
"Right. Professional." Marcus leans against the table, his grin widening. "So it's totally professional that half the neighborhood watched the fire department leave your bakery at dawn yesterday, and then saw this guy leaving through the back alley twenty minutes later?"
Oh no.
Lanek goes very, very still beside me.
"That's not…it wasn't…the oven caught fire!" I stammer.
"Sure it did." Marcus winks. "No judgment. You two are hot together. Literally, apparently."
He saunters off, leaving me standing there wishing for a sinkhole to open up and swallow me whole.
The silence stretches.
Finally, Lanek speaks, his voice low and dangerous. "So the whole neighborhood knows."
"Apparently." The word comes out clipped, brittle with embarrassment.
"And you still want to pretend it was a mistake. That what happened between us meant nothing."
I close my eyes against the weight of his stare, against the memory of his hands on my waist, the heat of his skin, the way he'd growled my name like a prayer. "Lanek, please—"
"Try the ribs, Quinn." The shift in topic is so abrupt it takes me a second to process. When I don't respond immediately, he adds, quieter but no less intense, "Just try them."
I open my eyes. He's holding out a small sample cup, perfectly charred meat glistening with sauce, and his expression is unreadable.
"What?" The word comes out sharper than I intend, defensive.
"Try them." He doesn't move, doesn't push the cup closer, just holds it there between us like an offering. Like a challenge. "Professional feedback between business neighbors."
My eyes narrow. It's a trap. I know it's a trap with every fiber of my being.
This is how it always starts with him: something that seems innocent, reasonable even, and then suddenly I'm off balance, my carefully constructed walls crumbling brick by brick while he watches with that insufferable, knowing look.
But the smell is incredible. Rich smoke and caramelized meat and something dark and complex that I can't quite identify. My traitorous stomach actually growls.
"Professional feedback," I repeat slowly, testing the words for hidden meanings.
"That's what I said." His expression remains neutral, but there's a glint in his eyes that makes my pulse jump.
I reach out and take the cup anyway, my fingers brushing his for just a fraction of a second. Even that brief contact sends heat racing up my arm, and I hate that I notice, hate that my body responds to him like this despite everything.
The first bite is a revelation. The meat is impossibly tender, falling apart at the barest pressure, the smoke flavor perfectly balanced with a sweet-spicy glaze that makes my taste buds sing. It's objectively the best thing I've ever put in my mouth.
I hate him so much. Every reasonable, rational cell in my body despises the fact that this insufferable man can cook like some kind of culinary wizard while simultaneously being the bane of my professional existence.
"Well?" he prompts, and there's something in his voice now, something that wasn't there before. A rougher edge beneath the usual hearty confidence. He's watching me making my skin prickle with awareness.
I swallow hard, trying to find words that won't give him the satisfaction he's clearly seeking. "It's... adequate," I manage, though even to my own ears the assertion sounds weak and unconvincing.
His laugh is low and rich, rumbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. The sound does absolutely unfair things to my nervous system. "Liar."
The single word lands like a gauntlet thrown between us. I could keep up the pretense, could armor myself in more dismissive commentary, but what's the point? He knows. He can see right through me, can probably read every traitorous thought written plainly across my face.
"Fine," I bite out, meeting his gaze with as much defiance as I can muster. "It's good. Better than good, actually. It's exceptional. Are you happy now?"
"Not even close. But I'm patient, little baker. I can wait."
"For what?"
His smile is slow and devastating. "For you to stop lying to yourself."
Before I can respond, a fresh wave of customers descends on the booth, and I'm saved from having to answer.
But his words echo in my head for the rest of the afternoon, mixing with smoke and the memory of his hands on my skin, until I can't tell the difference between what I want and what I'm terrified to admit.