"This is business." He finally looks at me, his dark eyes glittering with challenge. "Unless you'd prefer to discuss it somewhere more private?"
My traitorous body reacts immediately, heat pooling low in my belly at the implication. I shove the feeling down ruthlessly and lift my chin. "There's nothing to discuss."
"Then I guess we're booth partners."
He turns back to his setup, effectively dismissing me, and I'm left standing there clutching my box of macarons and seriously reconsidering my life choices.
Fine.
If he wants to play this game, I'll play.
I set up my display with aggressive precision, arranging my macarons in perfect geometric patterns, positioning my vintage cake stands at strategic angles. I'm hanging the final strand of pastel bunting when Lanek fires up the smoker.
Applewood smoke immediately fills the tent, thick and rich and completely overwhelming. It curls through the air like a living thing, wrapping itself around my carefully arranged displays, seeping into the delicate shells of my macarons, infiltrating every corner of our shared space with its woody, savory presence.
"Oops," he says, not sounding even remotely apologetic. In fact, there's a distinct thread of amusement woven through that deep, rumbling voice of his.
I turn to face him with my absolute brightest, most saccharine smile plastered across my face. "How clumsy of you," I say, my voice dripping with such exaggerated sweetness that it could probably cause cavities. "I had no idea operating a smoker required such delicate precision. It must be so terribly difficult for someone with your... considerable skills."
"I'm just doing my job, Quinn." He doesn't even look at me, just continues adjusting the vents on his smoker withthose massive, tattooed hands, making minute alterations that absolutely do not require this much smoke production. The silver rings on his tusks catch the light as he speaks.
"Of course you are," I respond, my customer-service smile never wavering even as I fantasize about dumping an entire bag of powdered sugar over his ridiculous head. "And doing it so very, very well."
The first customers start arriving, and I slip seamlessly into my customer-service persona. I'm charming and bubbly and enthusiastically describing the flavor profiles of my rose-pistachio macarons when I notice every single person's attention drifting toward Lanek's side of the booth.
Because he's casually slicing brisket with a knife the size of my forearm, his large hands moving with surprising delicacy, and the smell is absolutely intoxicating.
"That smells amazing," one customer says, already wandering toward him.
"Thank you," Lanek rumbles. "Would you like a sample?"
Within minutes, there's a small crowd gathered around his cutting board, and I'm left standing alone next to my increasingly smoke-scented macarons.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
I'm a professional.
I adjust my display and try not to notice the way his shoulders flex when he carves, or the deep rumble of his laugh when someone compliments his technique, or the fact that he keeps glancing over at me with that insufferably smug expression.
By noon, I've sold exactly twelve macarons.
Lanek has sold out of brisket and started on a rack of ribs.
"Having a good day?" he asks during a brief lull, his tone absolutely dripping with false innocence.
"Wonderful," I lie through teeth so gritted I'm probably damaging my molars. "Business is absolutely booming. Can't you tell?"
He glances pointedly at my nearly untouched display, then back at me, one thick eyebrow rising slowly. "Your macarons look a little...smoky."
I feel my eye twitch. The delicate shells have indeed taken on a faint grey tinge from the barbecue haze that's been drifting across our shared space for the past three hours. They look like tiny, pastel-colored ash trays.
"They're rustic," I snap, straightening one of the affected cookies with far more aggression than necessary.
"They're inedible." His voice is flat, matter-of-fact, completely devoid of malice, which somehow makes it worse.
I'm about to tell him exactly where he can shove his brisket when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.
