His thumb brushes once across my cheekbone so achingly gentle. Then he releases me, his warmth disappears so abruptly. He picks up the untouched bakery box from where it still sits on the counter, pristine pink cardboard filled with pastries I'd spent all morning perfecting. He holds it carefully, reverently, as if it's something precious.
He doesn't say another word. Doesn't argue, doesn't push, doesn't use that devastating directness that cuts through every defence I try to build. He just walks to the door with measured, deliberate steps that echo too loud in the sudden silence of my kitchen.
The door clicks shut behind him with devastating finality. Not a slam, not even a firm closure. Just a quiet, controlled click that somehow feels worse than if he'd torn it off the hinges.
I stand there in my kitchen, surrounded by the lingering scent of cardamom and his woodsmoke cologne, trembling like I've just run a marathon. My legs feel unsteady. My hands won't stop shaking. I press my palms flat against the cool marble of my work counter, trying to ground myself, trying to remember why I just did that.
I tell myself I made the right choice. The only choice. The professional, sensible, self-preserving choice.
I'm still telling myself that, repeating it like a mantra, when the first hot tear spills down my cheek. Then another. Then I'm crying in earnest, my carefully constructed composure crumbling into nothing.
The neighborhood blockparty is my personal circle of hell.
I arrive early, determined to set up my booth and maintain a perfectly professional distance from Lanek, only to discover that the event organizers, lovely, well-meaning, completely disorganized humans, have made a critical error.
"I'm so sorry, Quinn!" Sandra, the neighborhood association president, wrings her hands anxiously. "We overbooked the vendor slots and had to double up a few of the booths. You're paired with the new butcher shop. I hope that's okay?"
It is not okay.
It is the opposite of okay.
But I paste on my customer service smile and nod graciously because I am a professional and I do not scream at volunteers. "Of course. No problem at all."
Sandra looks relieved. "Wonderful! He's already setting up. Booth seven, right down there."
I follow her pointing finger and immediately want to walk into traffic.
Booth seven is a massive, double-wide tent. One half is clearly mine—pastel bunting, a vintage lace tablecloth, and carefully arranged tiered displays for my macarons. The other half is Lanek's, and he's currently unloading what appears to be an entire professional-grade smoker from the back of his truck.
He sees me and grins.
I'm going to kill him.
I march over, my heels clicking sharply on the asphalt, and plant myself directly in front of him. "Absolutely not."
"Good morning to you too, little baker."
"Do not 'little baker' me. You can't set up a smoker next to my macarons!"
He hefts a massive brisket wrapped in butcher paper onto the prep table with infuriating ease. "Why not?"
"Because smoke and delicate French pastries do not mix!"
"They're in the same booth. They'll be fine."
"They will not be fine! The flavor will transfer and they'll taste like—like?—"
"Like perfectly smoked, artisanal brisket?" He unwraps the meat, revealing a gorgeous, mahogany-crusted slab that probably weighs more than I do. "Sounds like an improvement."
I'm going to commit a felony.
"Lanek, I'm serious. You need to move."
"Can't. Sandra already assigned the booths." He starts arranging his display with maddening precision, thick wooden cutting boards, gleaming chef's knives, small sample cups. "Besides, I thought you wanted to keep things professional. What could be more professional than two local business owners collaborating at a community event?"
The emphasis he puts on "professional" makes my teeth grind.
"This is sabotage."
