Chapter 10 #2
"Thank you," she says quietly, still not turning to face me.
"Always." The word comes out rougher than I intend, weighted with meanings I'm not sure she's ready to hear.
A family with three small children approaches the booth, and the moment shatters. I return to my side like a good neighbor, but I catch Quinn's quick glance toward me, something soft and confused flickering across her features before she buries it beneath her professional mask.
The afternoon stretches on, hot and busy and surprisingly comfortable.
We fall into an unspoken rhythm. When Quinn gets overwhelmed with customers, I seamlessly pick up overflow from my side, directing people to her display when they're clearly looking for something sweet.
When a particularly difficult customer tries to argue with me about pricing, Quinn materializes at the boundary line with a bright smile and a perfectly crafted passive-aggressive comment that somehow both defuses the situation and makes the man slink away in embarrassment.
We're good together. Better than good. And I can tell from the way Quinn keeps catching herself almost smiling when she thinks I'm not looking that she's starting to realize it too.
Around three in the afternoon, I notice her energy flagging again. This time I don't ask permission, just prepare a small sampler plate with a bit of everything: pulled pork, a slice of sausage, a rib, some of my smoked mac and cheese from the batch I brought as a side offering.
I round the tape line and appear at her elbow while she's boxing up a large macaron order. She startles slightly, then follows my gaze to the loaded plate in my hand.
"Lanek—"
"Open," I say simply, holding up a piece of sausage.
Her eyes go wide. "Absolutely not."
"You need to eat. Your hands are shaking again." I keep the sausage right there, waiting. "Unless you'd prefer I announce to everyone in hearing range that you're too stubborn to take care of yourself?"
"You wouldn't dare." But there's no conviction behind the words.
"Try me."
We stare at each other for a long moment, a battle of wills that we've fought a hundred times in a hundred different contexts. Finally, with a huff of pure frustration, she leans forward and takes the sausage directly from my fingers with her teeth.
The feeling of her lips brushing my skin, the warm wetness of her mouth, the way her eyes stay locked on mine in defiant challenge while she chews—it takes every ounce of control I possess not to react visibly.
My entire body goes tight, heat flooding through me in a rush that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun.
She swallows, her throat working, and I immediately offer another piece. This time she doesn't protest, just accepts it the same way, her gaze never leaving mine.
We continue like this, me feeding her piece after piece while curious neighbors pass by and absolutely notice what we're doing. I couldn't care less. Let them look. Let them see that this fierce, infuriating, perfect woman is allowing me to care for her, even if she won't admit that's what this is.
By the time the plate is empty, Quinn's cheeks are flushed pink, her breathing slightly uneven, and the air between us feels charged with the same electric tension that filled her destroyed kitchen right before the sprinklers went off.
"Better?" I ask again, echoing the same question from this morning.
"Yes," she admits, and this time there's no deflection, no attempt to minimize. Just honest acknowledgment.
I lean in slightly, because my words are for her alone. "Good. Because I need you strong, little baker. Can't have you collapsing before the day is done."
"I wasn't going to collapse," she protests, but there's no heat in it.
"Maybe not. But I'm not taking chances." I let my fingers brush along her jawline, just once, so quick it could be accidental. "Not with you."
Before she can respond, I retreat back to my designated territory, leaving her staring after me with an expression somewhere between exasperated and wanting.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of customers and carefully orchestrated moments of casual care.
I make sure Quinn has water. I wordlessly hand her samples to try whenever I'm testing a new batch.
When someone's toddler knocks over her carefully arranged cookie display, I'm there immediately, helping her rebuild while the mortified parent apologizes profusely.
And through it all, her barriers crumble bit by bit.
The way she stops flinching when I cross into her space.
The way she starts naturally angling toward me when making recommendations to customers.
The small, genuine smile she gives me when an elderly Orc woman compliments our "beautiful partnership" and asks how long we've been married.
"We're not—" Quinn starts automatically.
"Yet," I finish smoothly, meeting the woman's knowing gaze with a grin.
Quinn shoots me a look that promises retribution, but I notice she doesn't correct me. Just lets the implication hang there while the woman cackles and buys three pounds of ribs and a dozen macarons.
By five o'clock, we're both running low on inventory and the crowd has started to thin. Quinn is leaning against her side of the table, looking pleasantly exhausted, surveying the afternoon's success with something approaching satisfaction.
"We did pretty well," she admits grudgingly.
"We made a good team," I counter, deliberately using the word she rejected this morning.
She rolls her eyes but doesn't argue. Progress.
I'm about to push my luck and suggest we grab dinner together when a presence appears at Quinn's side of the booth.
A human man, tall by human standards but still a full head shorter than me, wearing an expensive suit that screams corporate money.
His smile is all teeth and no warmth, and I dislike him instantly.
Quinn straightens slightly, her customer-service mask clicking into place, but I can see the tension returning to her shoulders. "Can I help you?"
"Quinn Hayes?" His voice is smooth, practiced. The kind of tone that comes from years of talking people into bad decisions.
"Yes?"
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded document, slapping it down on her table hard enough to make her remaining macarons rattle in their display. "Dane Corrigan, Corrigan Development Group. I'm your new landlord."
I watch Quinn's face go pale, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.
"What?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
"I purchased the building housing Flour and Fancy last week. Closed yesterday." He taps the document with one manicured finger. "That's your updated lease agreement. You'll notice the monthly rent has been adjusted to reflect current market values."
Quinn's hands are shaking when she picks up the papers, and this time it has nothing to do with low blood sugar.
I move without conscious thought, crossing the boundary line and coming to stand directly behind her as our bodies are nearly touching.
This Corrigan bastard has to acknowledge my presence.
He does, his gaze flicking up to me with barely concealed disdain before dismissing me entirely and returning his attention to Quinn.
She's reading the document, her face getting progressively whiter with each line. "This is double my current rent."
"Market rate," Corrigan says with a shrug that suggests he couldn't care less. "The neighborhood is gentrifying. Property values are increasing. Surely you understand basic economics."
"This is predatory," Quinn's voice shakes with barely suppressed rage. "You can't—"
"I can, actually. It's all perfectly legal." He smiles that awful, empty smile again. "Of course, if you can't afford the new terms, I'm happy to discuss buyout options for your business. I have several interested parties looking to open more... upscale establishments in the area."
The threat is clear. Pay the impossible rent or get forced out so he can replace her with something more profitable.
I feel my hands curling into fists, my jaw clenching so hard my tusks ache. The urge to reach across the table and physically remove this smug corporate vulture from Quinn's presence is nearly overwhelming, but I stay still, to stay quiet, to let Quinn handle this her way.
She needs to fight her own battles. But that doesn't mean I can't stand right here behind her, a wall of solid muscle and barely restrained violence, making it clear that she doesn't fight alone.
Quinn's chin comes up, and her spine stiffens with that same fierce determination I've seen a hundred times before. "I'll need time to review this with a lawyer."
"Of course. You have thirty days." Corrigan straightens his already-perfect tie. "But I should mention that several other tenants in the building have already accepted buyout offers. You might want to consider your options carefully."
He turns to leave, then pauses, glancing back at our shared booth setup with theatrical disdain. "Though I suppose if the bakery thing doesn't work out, you could always pursue this... quaint partnership full-time. I'm sure there's a market for novelty food somewhere."
The dismissive condescension in his tone, the way he looks at Quinn like she's already defeated, like her business and her dreams are nothing more than an amusing inconvenience to be swept aside—something in me snaps.
I move forward half a step, letting my full size become apparent, letting him see what kind of Orc stands behind this woman he's trying to intimidate.
"Leave," I say quietly. Just the one word, but I let every ounce of possessive fury I'm feeling color my voice, let it rumble up from somewhere deep and primal.
Corrigan's eyes widen fractionally. Good. He should be scared.
"Now," I add when he doesn't immediately move.
He goes, stumbling slightly in his haste to put distance between us, nearly knocking over another vendor's display in his rush to escape.
The moment he's out of sight, Quinn's rigid control shatters. She slumps forward, bracing her hands against the table, the legal notice crumpling beneath her fingers. Her breathing comes fast and shallow, verging on panic.
"Quinn." I put my hand on her shoulder, gentle despite the rage still coursing through my system. "Breathe."
"I can't afford this," she whispers. "Double rent? I'm barely making ends meet as it is. The equipment repairs alone this month..." She trails off, shaking her head. "I'm going to lose everything."
"No." The word comes out harder than I intend. "You're not."
She looks up at me with devastated eyes. "You don't understand—"
"Then explain it to me." I move around to her side of the table, positioning myself between her and the rest of the block party, giving her a moment of privacy. "Tell me what you need."
"I need a miracle," she says bitterly. "Or about three thousand extra dollars a month that I don't have."
My mind is already racing, calculating, planning. My business is doing well. Better than well. I could cover the increase, at least temporarily. Or we could—
The thought stops me cold.
We could combine businesses. Share overhead costs, split the rent, operate out of one location instead of two.
It's perfect. Practical. Exactly the kind of partnership I've been unconsciously working toward since the moment I first saw her.
But looking at her now, fragile and devastated and barely holding herself together, I know this isn't the time. Suggesting she move in with me, combine our shops, merge our lives—she'd see it as charity at best, manipulation at worst. She needs to come to that conclusion on her own.
So instead, I do the only thing I can. I pull her against my chest, wrapping her completely in my arms, and let her have this moment to fall apart where no one else can see.
And while she shakes against me, her fingers clutching at my shirt like I'm the only solid thing in her collapsing world, I make a silent promise.
This Corrigan bastard has no idea what he's just started. But he's going to learn.
Nobody threatens what's mine.