Page 38 of Orc'd & Loaded
"Chef Boris? You down here? The smoker's been cold for six hours and the brisket is going to be..."
A young orc stands at the stairs, key dangling from one green hand, mouth hanging open. His gaze tracks from the scattered mushrooms to the popped buttons on the floor to the leather apron wrapped around two bodies that are scrambling apart with the coordination of drunk penguins on a frozen lake.
Boris's elbow catches a crate of mache. It tips. Greens cascade over my head like confetti.
"Grak,great timing."
Grak blinks. Looks at me. Looks at the mache in my hair. Looks at his boss.
"Should I... come back?"
"You should start the smoker."
"Right. Smoker. Yes. Starting it. Now. Immediately." Grak backs up one step. Two. "Should I also pretend I didn't see..."
"Grak."
"Smoker. Gone." He vanishes. The door stays wide open. Cold morning air barrels down the steps and floods our leather cocoon, and the spell shatters like a wine glass dropped on tile.
CHAPTER 10
BORIS
Mache. In her hair. On her shoulders. A single perfect leaf stuck to her collarbone like a garnish on a plate I desperately want to lick clean.
Focus, Cleaver.
I grab the nearest crate and shove it toward the icebox with my knee, buying three seconds of not looking at her while she peels lettuce off herself. My shirt hangs open. Every single button scattered somewhere on the cellar floor between the canvas sacks and a puddle of spilled mushroom brine. Cold air rushes down the steps and hits me like a slap from a disapproving aunt.
Solene stands. Her chef's coat is crumpled in the corner where I tossed it an hour ago. She snatches it up, shakes it once, and slides her arms in with the mechanical precision of someone suiting up for battle. Fingers fly down the double-breasted front, fastening each button with surgical speed. The transformation takes four seconds. Maybe five. Chef Rostova clicks back into place like a blade into its sheath.
Gone is the woman who whispered my name in the dark.
In her place stands a five-foot-seven column of starch and fury, picking a sprig of mache from her French twist and flicking it onto the floor.
"We should go up."
"We should."
Her eyes drop to my open shirt. Snap back up. A flush crawls from her throat to her ears, and she turns toward the stairs so fast her coat flares behind her.
I follow. Each stone step groans under my weight. The morning light gets brighter with every step, more real, more public, more full of consequences. By the time I reach the top, Grak has vanished to the smoker pit out back and the tavern's main room stretches empty around us. Chairs still stacked on tables from last night. The hearth cold. Gray light filtering through the leaded glass windows and catching dust motes that spin like tiny, judgmental witnesses.
Solene crosses her arms. Uncrosses them. Crosses them again.
"That was..."
"Incredible."
"I was going to say 'inadvisable.'"
"You can say both."
She pins me with a look that could julienne a carrot at thirty paces. "The festival is in twelve days, Boris."
"I own a calendar."
"We are direct competitors for the same contract."
