Page 39 of Orc'd & Loaded
"Also aware."
"So whatever that was..." She gestures vaguely toward the cellar door. The gesture encompasses the apron, the mushrooms, the dark, the cold stone, the heat. All of it. Reduced to a flick of the wrist. "It can't happen again. Not until after."
The words land somewhere between my ribs. Not a stab. More like a skewer sliding between bones. Precise. Clean.
"You're saying we keep it professional."
"I'm saying I won’t give Reginald Vance or anyone else a reason to claim I slept my way into a catering contract."
My jaw tightens. "Nobody would claim that."
"Everybody would claim that. The vegan chef and the orc tavern owner caught tangled up in a cellar two weeks before a competition they're both entering? That's not a scandal, Boris. That's a headline."
She's right. I hate it the way I hate overcooked brisket and watered-down ale and health inspectors with enchanted measuring tapes.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Professional. Strictly. Until after the festival." I stick out my hand. Massive. Green-gray. Scarred across the knuckles from a hundred encounters with hot iron grates. "Deal."
She stares at my hand. Her jaw works. Something flickers behind her eyes, quick and bright, like flame catching kindling before it's smothered.
She takes it.
Her grip is firm. Calloused from years of knife work. Her fingers barely wrap halfway around my palm, and the difference sends a bolt of sense memory straight through me. Those same fingers pressed flat against my stomach an hour ago. Curled against my shoulders. Dug into the muscle along my spine when I...
I drop her hand.
"Professional," I repeat. The word tastes like sawdust.
"Professional." She straightens her coat. Brushes an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve. "I need to check my produce. Everything we moved last night, I want to inspect every crate before I haul it back."
"Cellar's yours. Take what you need."
She nods once. Sharp. Turns on her heel and marches back toward the cellar stairs with the posture of a general returning to a battlefield she absolutely did not just roll around on.
She goes.
Professional.
Right.
I grab the bar counter and squeeze until the old oak creaks. Then I reach under the tap and splash cold water on my face, my neck, the back of my skull. Grak appears in the kitchen doorway, wiping soot from his hands, eyes wide and carefully, aggressively neutral.
"Brisket temp?"
"Haven't checked yet, Chef."
"Then check it."
He nods. Pauses.
"Chef?"
"What."
"You've got lettuce in your tusk."
