I turn to find Quinn staring at me with an expression I can't quite read. Her cheeks are flushed, her hands gripped tight on her counter, and for a moment I think she's going to yell at me for overstepping, for interfering, for making everything worse.
Instead, she reaches over and very deliberately flips the lock on her front door.
The deadbolt slides home with a solid, final click that echoes through the quiet bakery.
"What," Quinn says slowly, her voice shaking slightly, "was that?"
CHAPTER 5
QUINN
Ilock the door because I need exactly thirty seconds to process what just happened without the possibility of another customer walking in to witness my complete mental breakdown.
Lanek is still standing in my bakery, all six-feet-eight-inches of tattooed, blood-apron-wearing Orc, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You," I start, then stop because my voice comes out somewhere between a squeak and a whisper. I clear my throat and try again. "You just threatened a food critic."
"I didn't threaten anyone." He sounds genuinely confused by the accusation. "I simply pointed out that her review standards were inconsistent and her criticism was based on personal preference rather than objective quality markers."
"You told her there's the door!"
"Because she was being unreasonable." He says this like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "She came in here looking to tear you down, not to actually evaluate your work. That's not professional behavior."
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the counter to steady myself, which does absolutely nothing because theadrenaline racing through my system has nowhere to go. "Do you have any idea what she could do to my business? One bad review from Miranda Ling and I might as well close up shop!"
"Then she shouldn't write bad reviews based on lies."
"That's not how this works!"
"It's how it should work." Lanek moves closer, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "If she writes a dishonest review, I'll write a public response detailing exactly why her criticism was unfounded. I have a very active presence on the artisanal food forums."
Of course he does. Of course this massive, cleaver-wielding Orc has an active presence on food forums.
"You can't just—" I stop, pressing my fingers against my temples where a headache is starting to build. "This isn't your problem. You shouldn't have gotten involved."
"You're my neighbor."
"Exactly! Your neighbor! Not your responsibility!"
"In my culture, neighbors defend each other's territory." He says this with the kind of absolute certainty that makes me want to scream. "Especially when one neighbor is clearly being targeted by a threat she shouldn't have to face alone."
"A food critic isn't a threat?—"
"She made you cry."
I freeze. "I wasn't crying."
"Your eyes were wet. You were holding your counter so tight your knuckles went white. She was hurting you with her words, and you were trying not to show it."
The observation is so unexpectedly perceptive that I forget to be angry for a second. I was trying not to show it. I've spent years building up my customer-service armor, learning how to smile through awful interactions, how to de-escalate difficult customers without losing my composure. But Miranda hadgotten under my skin, found exactly the right pressure points to make me doubt everything I've built.
And Lanek noticed.
"That still doesn't give you the right to interfere," I manage, but the words come out weaker than intended.
"I disagree." He crosses those massive arms over his chest, and I notice for the first time that there's still a faint smear of blood on his forearm, probably from whatever he was working on before he decided to stage a dramatic intervention in my bakery. "You work too hard to let someone like her tear you down because she's having a bad day and decided to take it out on an easy target."
"I'm not an easy target!"
