Chapter 10
LANEK
The shared booth is perfect.
I realize this the moment Quinn arrives, her face cycling through shock, horror, and murderous intent when she spots me already set up on the left side of the double-wide space.
She stands there frozen at the sidewalk, clutching a tower of pastel bakery boxes like a shield, and I have to actively suppress the urge to cross the distance between us, haul her against my chest, and kiss that furious expression right off her pretty face.
Instead, I offer her my most reasonable smile and gesture to the empty right side of the booth. "Good morning, neighbor."
The look she gives me could freeze molten steel. "This is a mistake. There has to be a mistake."
"No mistake." I tap the laminated booth assignment sheet tacked to the wooden frame. "Booth seven, shared vendor space. Lanek Grieves, artisanal butcher. Quinn Hayes, artisanal baker." I let my grin widen just slightly. "We're a team."
"We are absolutely not a team." She dumps her boxes onto the table with enough force to make the structure rattle, then wheels around to presumably hunt down whoever made this assignment and verbally eviscerate them.
I catch her wrist gently before she can storm off. Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers, rabbiting fast and wild, and vanilla and powdered sugar mixed with her own natural sweetness caresses my nose. "Quinn."
She freezes, staring down at where my hand wraps completely around her delicate wrist. I could span both her wrists with one hand and still have room left over.
The size difference between us has always been obvious, but standing this close in the bright morning sunlight, with curious neighbors already starting to wander past, the contrast feels almost obscene.
She barely reaches the center of my chest.
"Let go," she says quietly, but there's no real heat behind it.
I do, immediately, though every Orc instinct I possess roars in protest at the loss of contact. "The assignment is correct. The organizers told me yesterday when I confirmed my spot. They thought pairing complementary vendors would drive more foot traffic."
Her shoulders slump slightly, defeat creeping into her posture. "Of course they did."
"It's good business strategy," I point out reasonably. "People come for smoked meat, they stay for dessert. Or vice versa."
"Or they get confused about whether they're at a barbecue or a French patisserie and leave entirely." She turns back to her side of the booth, eyeing the space critically. "Fine. But we're splitting this down the middle. You stay on your side, I stay on mine."
Before I can respond, she's already digging through her supply boxes, emerging victorious with a roll of pink washi tape covered in tiny white polka dots.
She proceeds to march to the front edge of the shared table and press a strip of tape down the exact center, creating a boundary line that wouldn't stop a determined toddler, let alone a fully grown Orc.
I watch this territorial display with barely contained amusement. "You think that's going to work?"
"It's a clear visual indicator of personal space boundaries." She smooths down another strip with unnecessary force. "Something you seem constitutionally incapable of respecting."
"I respect boundaries just fine." I lean against my half of the booth, arms crossed, making absolutely no effort to hide the fact that I'm watching her work. "When they make sense."
She shoots me a withering glare over her shoulder. "This makes perfect sense."
"Does it?" I gesture to the growing crowd of early-morning block party attendees already filtering past. "Because from a customer perspective, we look like one unified vendor. Which means they'll treat us like a team whether you've drawn a line or not."
Her jaw clenches, and I can practically see her cycling through counterarguments and dismissing each one. Finally, she just returns to aggressively arranging her display of colorful macarons in pristine geometric rows, radiating irritation from every line of her compact body.
I let her have the silence while I finish setting up my side.
The smoker is already loaded and running, pumping out steady clouds of applewood smoke that mix beautifully with the sweet vanilla drift coming from her setup.
My brisket has been cooking since three this morning, the bark perfectly caramelized, and I've got racks of ribs, pulled pork, and smoked sausage links ready to slice and serve.
The first customers start arriving around nine, drawn by the competing scents. An older human couple approaches cautiously, eyeing both sides of the booth with equal interest.
"Oh my," the woman says, her gaze bouncing between Quinn's pastel paradise and my decidedly more primal setup. "What an interesting combination."
Quinn's customer-service smile clicks into place instantly, warm and welcoming despite the tension still radiating from her shoulders. "Good morning! Can I interest you in some fresh-baked lavender shortbread or perhaps a selection of French macarons?"
"Actually," the man interrupts, nodding toward my smoker, "that brisket smells incredible. Can we get a sample?"
I slice off a generous portion, the meat so tender it barely holds together, and hand it over. They take one bite and immediately place an order for a full pound, plus a container of my house-made barbecue sauce.
While I'm packaging their order, the woman turns to Quinn. "Do you have anything that would pair well with smoked meat? Maybe something not too sweet?"
Quinn hesitates for just a fraction of a second before her professional instincts override whatever personal objections she might have.
"I have rosemary-black pepper shortbread that would complement the smoke profile beautifully.
And my honey-butter cornbread cookies have just a touch of savory that balances nicely with rich proteins. "
She's not wrong. The combination sounds perfect, and judging by the way the couple's faces light up, they agree.
They end up buying from both sides of the booth, walking away with a bag full of smoked meat and delicate baked goods, discussing how they're going to serve everything at their dinner party next week.
Quinn watches them go with an expression I can't quite read. Surprise, maybe. Or reluctant satisfaction.
"Good upsell," I tell her.
She doesn't look at me. "Just doing my job."
The morning continues in the same pattern.
Customers approach, drawn by the novelty of our paired setup, and more often than not they end up buying from both sides.
Quinn's recommendations are always spot-on, pairing her delicate pastries with my heavier offerings in ways that genuinely enhance both products.
She suggests my pulled pork to someone buying her jalapeno-cheddar scones.
I recommend her brown butter blondies to a customer loading up on ribs.
We're not quite working together, but we're not actively sabotaging each other either, and for Quinn that might as well be a declaration of partnership.
Around noon, the crowd thickens considerably.
The sun beats down hot and relentless, and I notice Quinn starting to flag.
She's been on her feet since probably four this morning, the same as me, but she doesn't have the same physical reserves.
Her smile is getting slightly strained, her movements a touch slower.
When there's a brief lull in customers, I slice off a choice piece of brisket, the meat practically melting against the knife, and load it onto a small paper plate with a scoop of my vinegar slaw.
Then I cross the polka-dot boundary line like it doesn't exist.
Quinn is reorganizing her macaron display, her back to me, and doesn't notice my approach until I'm right behind her. My shadow falls across her workspace. She has a fine tremor in her hands that suggests low blood sugar and exhaustion.
"Here." I hold the plate where she can see it without having to turn around.
She goes very still. "What are you doing?"
"Feeding you." I keep my voice low and even, non-threatening. "You haven't eaten anything all day."
"I had coffee."
"Coffee isn't food, little baker." I move closer, eliminating the last few inches of space between us. Not touching, but near enough that she'd feel my body heat. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine." But her protest is weaker than usual, lacking the sharp edge of genuine anger.
"Eat." I bring the plate around to her side, holding it at an angle where she can easily reach without having to fully acknowledge what I'm doing. "Just a few bites. Then you can go back to pretending your pink tape is an impenetrable wall."
She makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be pure exasperation. Her hand comes up slowly, hesitating, before she finally takes a small piece of brisket between her fingers and brings it to her mouth.
I observe as she eats, cataloging every micro-expression. The way her eyes close briefly in unwilling pleasure. The small, almost inaudible sound of satisfaction that escapes her throat. The way her shoulders drop a fraction, tension easing.
"Better?" I ask when she reaches for another piece.
"It's adequate," she mutters, but her fingers are already moving toward the slaw.
I huff out a quiet laugh and stay right where I am, anyone watching would absolutely assume we're together, holding the plate steady while she works her way through most of the serving.
Her fingers brush mine twice when reaching for the last few pieces of meat, and both times her breath catches just slightly, her pulse visible in the delicate line of her throat.
When she finally finishes, I set the empty plate aside but don't immediately retreat back to my territory.
Instead, I let myself have just a few seconds to stand here, breathing in her scent, watching the color return to her cheeks, memorizing the exact slope of her shoulders and the way afternoon sunlight catches in her strawberry-blonde hair.