"Well, well. If it isn't the neighborhood's cutest couple."
I turn to find Matt Ling, the owner of the overpriced wine bar two blocks over, grinning at us like he knows something we don't.
"We're not a couple," I say immediately.
"Could've fooled me. You two have been eye-fucking each other for the past hour."
Lanek makes a sound that might be a laugh.
I want to die.
"We're just sharing a booth," I explain tightly. "Completely professional."
"Right. Professional." Marcus leans against the table, his grin widening. "So it's totally professional that half the neighborhood watched the fire department leave your bakery at dawn yesterday, and then saw this guy leaving through the back alley twenty minutes later?"
Oh no.
Lanek goes very, very still beside me.
"That's not…it wasn't…the oven caught fire!" I stammer.
"Sure it did." Marcus winks. "No judgment. You two are hot together. Literally, apparently."
He saunters off, leaving me standing there wishing for a sinkhole to open up and swallow me whole.
The silence stretches.
Finally, Lanek speaks, his voice low and dangerous. "So the whole neighborhood knows."
"Apparently." The word comes out clipped, brittle with embarrassment.
"And you still want to pretend it was a mistake. That what happened between us meant nothing."
I close my eyes against the weight of his stare, against the memory of his hands on my waist, the heat of his skin, the way he'd growled my name like a prayer. "Lanek, please?—"
"Try the ribs, Quinn." The shift in topic is so abrupt it takes me a second to process. When I don't respond immediately, he adds, quieter but no less intense, "Just try them."
I open my eyes. He's holding out a small sample cup, perfectly charred meat glistening with sauce, and his expression is unreadable.
"What?" The word comes out sharper than I intend, defensive.
"Try them." He doesn't move, doesn't push the cup closer, just holds it there between us like an offering. Like a challenge. "Professional feedback between business neighbors."
My eyes narrow. It's a trap. I know it's a trap with every fiber of my being. This is how it always starts with him: something that seems innocent, reasonable even, and then suddenly I'm off balance, my carefully constructed walls crumbling brick by brick while he watches with that insufferable, knowing look.
But the smell is incredible. Rich smoke and caramelized meat and something dark and complex that I can't quite identify. My traitorous stomach actually growls.
"Professional feedback," I repeat slowly, testing the words for hidden meanings.
"That's what I said." His expression remains neutral, but there's a glint in his eyes that makes my pulse jump.
I reach out and take the cup anyway, my fingers brushing his for just a fraction of a second. Even that brief contact sends heat racing up my arm, and I hate that I notice, hate that my body responds to him like this despite everything.
The first bite is a revelation. The meat is impossibly tender, falling apart at the barest pressure, the smoke flavor perfectly balanced with a sweet-spicy glaze that makes my taste buds sing. It's objectively the best thing I've ever put in my mouth.
I hate him so much. Every reasonable, rational cell in my body despises the fact that this insufferable man can cook like some kind of culinary wizard while simultaneously being the bane of my professional existence.
"Well?" he prompts, and there's something in his voice now, something that wasn't there before. A rougher edge beneath the usual hearty confidence. He's watching me making my skin prickle with awareness.
