He does, still grinning, and I focus on my own tasks. Custom cuts for the evening rush. A whole pig that needs breaking down for a restaurant order. The familiar, grounding work of reducing an animal to its component parts, honoring every piece, wasting nothing.
But even with my hands occupied, part of my attention stays tuned next door. Listening. Monitoring. Making sure that bright, fierce energy keeps burning exactly where it should.
By the third day of our truce, I've established a new routine. I shift my heavy equipment work to after seven-thirty, just like I promised. I fix a wobbly shelf in her alley that was listing dangerously under the weight of her flour deliveries. I stop three separate groups of teenagers from skateboarding directly in front of her bakery entrance, using nothing but my physical presence and a pointed look.
I'm not trying to court her anymore, I tell myself. I'm just being a good neighbor. Protecting the shared commercial space we both rely on.
It's complete bullshit, and I know it.
On the fourth day, I notice the pattern in her customers. The morning rush hits between seven and nine, office workers grabbing pastries and coffee before disappearing into the surrounding buildings. Then a slower midday trickle, followed by another spike around three when the school across the street lets out. She handles it all with that same bright, competent energy, moving through her space like a choreographed dance.
But there are others too. Ones who linger too long, taking up tables without buying anything. A group of college students who camp out for hours over a single shared muffin. And then there's the man in the expensive suit who comes in every afternoon at two, orders a single black coffee, and spends the entire time on his phone making loud, aggressive business calls that I can hear from my shop.
He's disrupting her workflow. Her smile tightens around the edges whenever he walks in, watching her movements become slightly more terse as she navigates around his sprawling presence.
Not my problem.
Except it bothers me more each day, watching this overpriced asshole treat her bakery like his personal office while she's too polite to tell him to leave. On the fifth day, I'm seriously considering walking over there and suggesting he take his conference calls elsewhere when something worse happens.
A woman walks in just after lunch, dressed in all black with a designer bag and an expression like she's smelling something rotten. I recognize her immediately, Miranda Long, the food critic for the city's most influential dining magazine. She's destroyed more restaurants than health inspectors and rising rent combined, and she's built her entire reputation on finding fault with everything.
Quinn doesn't seem to recognize her, greeting her with the same warm professionalism she gives everyone. But I see the way Miranda's eyes narrow as she scans the bakery, already cataloging flaws.
This is going to be bad.
I abandon the ribeye I'm trimming and move closer to my front window, giving myself a clear sightline into Quinn's bakery. Miranda orders something, I can't hear what, and Quinn boxes it up with her usual care, wrapping the pastry in tissue paper and sliding it into one of those cream-colored bags with her bakery's logo printed in pink script.
Miranda takes the bag outside, sits at one of the two small bistro tables on the sidewalk, and pulls out the pastry. Some kind of Danish, glazed and golden. She takes a bite, and even from here I can see her expression sour.
No.
She takes another bite, then sets it down and pulls out her phone. She's taking notes. Or worse, she's photographing it for one of her scathing social media reviews that go viral within hours.
Then she stands up and walks back inside, and I know what's about to happen.
I'm moving before I consciously decide to move, locking my front door and crossing the sidewalk in four long strides. Through Quinn's front window, I can already hear Miranda's voice rising, sharp and cutting.
"—completely unacceptable. Do you have any idea how many bakeries would kill for coverage in my column? And you serve me acoldpastry?"
Quinn's voice, tight but still professional, "Ma'am, all our pastries are baked fresh this morning. If there's an issue with temperature?—"
"The issue is that your quality control is clearly nonexistent. This is room temperature at best, and the glaze is crystallized. Frankly, I've had better pastries from grocery store bakeries."
I pull open the front door of the bakery just as Quinn's customer service smile develops a dangerous edge. The small bell above the door chimes, and both women turn to look at me.
"I'm sorry, we're in the middle of—" Miranda starts.
I walk past her without acknowledging her existence, moving directly to where Quinn stands behind her counter. Her eyes widen slightly as I approach, and I see her posture shift from defensive to confused.
"Lanek, what?—"
"Forgot my order," I say calmly, holding her gaze. "The special one we discussed."
"We didn't discuss?—"
"The special order," I repeat, putting slight emphasis on the words. "For the private event."
I watch understanding flicker across her face, though she has no idea what I'm actually doing. But she's smart enough to recognize a rescue attempt when she sees one, and after a moment's hesitation, she nods slowly.
