Page 74 of Orc'd & Loaded
"What."
"Unanimous."
His eyes are wet. Not crying. Just full. Brimming with something too big for even his massive frame to contain.
My throat closes. I press my forehead against his. The bridge of his nose is wide and warm and slightly crooked where someone or something broke it years ago.
"Unanimous," I repeat.
He stops spinning. Stands perfectly still in the kitchen, holding me like I weigh nothing, breathing hard. Not from exertion. From the effort of keeping whatever is inside him from detonating.
The kitchen doors burst open. The mayor. Two council members. A photographer from Le Parisien who nearly trips over her own camera strap. Behind them, the crowd surges toward the building, and through the open door the noise doubles, triples, becomes a living wall of sound.
Boris sets me on my feet. Gently. Like placing a soufflé on a cooling rack.
"Ms. Rostova! Mr. Cleaver!" Mayor Elliston's face is the color of a beet. "Congratulations! Mr. Vance would like a word with both of you. He's requested a private meeting at the judges' table."
The photographer's flash pops. I blink white spots out of my vision. When it clears, Boris is looking down at me with an expression I have never seen on his face before. Not the grin. Not the competitive snarl. Not the soft, dark look from the cellar.
Pride. Uncomplicated and total. Aimed directly at me like a floodlight.
"After you, Chef."
He holds the door. I walk through it into the roaring square, three hundred faces turning toward me at once, and the afternoon sun hits my ruined coat and my bandaged hand and the barbecue stain over my heart, and for the first time in my entire career, being a mess feels exactly right.
Boris falls into step beside me. His shadow covers me completely.
We cross the cobblestones toward Vance's table, and the crowd parts again, and in the back a child sitting on her father's shoulders bangs two pot lids together like cymbals.
Vance stands as we approach. The notebook is open now.
Vance's review is three paragraphs. He reads it aloud at the table. The notebook shakes slightly in his hands, which is the most human thing I have ever witnessed from a man who once described a Michelin-starred risotto as "competent wallpaper paste."
The words blur together. "Unprecedented fusion." "Technically impeccable." "A dish that argues, convincingly, that the future of cuisine lives in the volatile space between traditions that refuse to compromise."
He tears the page from the notebook. Hands it to me. His fingers are cold and precise.
"I'll run the full review in Thursday's edition. National syndication." He looks at Boris. Back at me. "You two should fight more often. It's good for the food."
Boris barks a laugh so loud the photographer flinches and snaps an accidental photo of the sky.
Then Vance does something nobody in the square expects. He extends his hand to Boris. Not a perfunctory critic's handshake. A full grip, forearm to forearm, the way I've seen orcs greet each other at the farmer's market.
Boris goes still. His throat works. He clasps Vance's forearm and squeezes once, and the critic winces but doesn't pull away, and something passes between them that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with respect.
"Thursday," Vance repeats. He picks up his jacket from the chair, folds it over his arm, and walks toward the black town car without looking back.
The crowd swallows us.
Boris's sous chef, a stocky orc named Kettle who got his name from the dent in his skull, reaches us first. He wraps both arms around Boris and lifts him three inches off the ground, which shouldn't be physically possible but apparently joy is a performance-enhancing drug.
My own staff finds me seconds later. Maren, my pastry chef, grabs my face with both flour-dusted hands and screams directly into my nose. Tomás, my line cook, is crying openly and doesn't care who sees. Even quiet, stoic Jun from prep is jumping up and down with a celery stalk still clutched in his fist like a victory flag.
"The contract!" Maren shakes my head between her palms. "Solene! The CONTRACT!"
The contract.
The exclusive town hall catering contract. Twelve months of guaranteed revenue. Enough to cover the investor gap. Enough to cover payroll through winter. Enough to keep Verdure's doors open and the lights on and the walk-in humming through every dead Tuesday night that would have otherwise bled me dry.
