Page 58 of Orc'd & Loaded
"Like I'm something precious. I just lost my entire financial backing. I have no walk-in. No ovens. No countertops. I am functionally a chef without a kitchen, Boris. This is a disaster."
He covers my hand with both of his. My entire fist disappears.
"You have a kitchen."
"I have a lease I can't afford."
"You have my kitchen."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy as woodsmoke. Somewhere outside, a car horn bleats. The trash can sits on its side by the curb, still leaking coffee dregs into the gutter.
My bandaged palm throbs under his fingers. I open my mouth to argue and nothing comes out.
The argument lasts forty-seven minutes.
I lose.
Not because Boris is right. Because my walk-in freezer is currently powered by exactly zero functioning watts of electricity, my investor just peeled out of a parking lot in an Audi, and the only person in a six-block radius with a stone cellar, a magical icebox, and enough counter space to prep a festival-grade fusion dish is the seven-foot orc standing in front of me with his arms crossed and his scarred lip doing that twitching thing.
"Temporary," I say, jabbing a finger at him. "Strictly temporary. I prep in your kitchen during off-hours. I bring my own knives. I label my shelves. Nobody touches my place. Nobody even breathes on my place."
"Agreed."
"And this changes nothing about the competition. When the festival comes, I am still going to destroy you."
"Of course."
"Stop smiling."
"I am not smiling."
He is absolutely smiling.
We spend the next eleven days living in that kitchen.
The first three days are a disaster of mismatched rhythms and frustrated snapping. I pace the line, pointing with my uninjured left hand and barking precise temperatures, while Boris grumbles about "intuition" and throws pinches of salt that I cannot measure. My burned palm throbs mercilessly, a constant reminder of how much control I've lost.
But by day four, the friction burns off. We build the dish. We tear it down. We build it again.
Slowly, the chaos sharpens into a frictionless, silent choreography. He learns to anticipate my plating cues before I voice them; I learn to stop hovering when he sears. My left hand directs, and his massive hands execute my delicate techniques with a surprising, deliberate gentleness that ruins my concentration at least three times a day. Under fresh gauze and daily applications of his grandmother's salve, the burn on my palm fades from an agonizing fire to a stiff, manageable ache.
Finally, it is the eve of the festival.
By six o'clock on Friday, the light outside has gone amber and soft. The prep is done.
Tomorrow morning, we cook for Reginald Vance. I am packing up my knife roll, exhausted to my marrow, when Boris blocks the town hall exit with his body. The salve has cooled to a dull tingle under the gauze. I need a shower. I need a spreadsheet. I need to call my lawyer and tell her to prepare documents that will functionally disembowel a man named Gerard who kicks trash cans.
What I get is Boris blocking the town hall exit with his body.
"Come."
"I need to go home."
"You need to eat."
"Boris."
"When did you last eat?"
