Her jaw clenches, and I can practically see her cycling through counterarguments and dismissing each one. Finally, she just returns to aggressively arranging her display of colorful macarons in pristine geometric rows, radiating irritation from every line of her compact body.
I let her have the silence while I finish setting up my side. The smoker is already loaded and running, pumping out steady clouds of applewood smoke that mix beautifully with the sweet vanilla drift coming from her setup. My brisket has been cooking since three this morning, the bark perfectly caramelized, and I've got racks of ribs, pulled pork, and smoked sausage links ready to slice and serve.
The first customers start arriving around nine, drawn by the competing scents. An older human couple approaches cautiously, eyeing both sides of the booth with equal interest.
"Oh my," the woman says, her gaze bouncing between Quinn's pastel paradise and my decidedly more primal setup. "What an interesting combination."
Quinn's customer-service smile clicks into place instantly, warm and welcoming despite the tension still radiating from her shoulders. "Good morning! Can I interest you in some fresh-baked lavender shortbread or perhaps a selection of French macarons?"
"Actually," the man interrupts, nodding toward my smoker, "that brisket smells incredible. Can we get a sample?"
I slice off a generous portion, the meat so tender it barely holds together, and hand it over. They take one bite and immediately place an order for a full pound, plus a container of my house-made barbecue sauce.
While I'm packaging their order, the woman turns to Quinn. "Do you have anything that would pair well with smoked meat? Maybe something not too sweet?"
Quinn hesitates for just a fraction of a second before her professional instincts override whatever personal objections she might have. "I have rosemary-black pepper shortbread that would complement the smoke profile beautifully. And my honey-butter cornbread cookies have just a touch of savory that balances nicely with rich proteins."
She's not wrong. The combination sounds perfect, and judging by the way the couple's faces light up, they agree. They end up buying from both sides of the booth, walking away with a bag full of smoked meat and delicate baked goods, discussing how they're going to serve everything at their dinner party next week.
Quinn watches them go with an expression I can't quite read. Surprise, maybe. Or reluctant satisfaction.
"Good upsell," I tell her.
She doesn't look at me. "Just doing my job."
The morning continues in the same pattern. Customers approach, drawn by the novelty of our paired setup, and more often than not they end up buying from both sides. Quinn'srecommendations are always spot-on, pairing her delicate pastries with my heavier offerings in ways that genuinely enhance both products. She suggests my pulled pork to someone buying her jalapeño-cheddar scones. I recommend her brown butter blondies to a customer loading up on ribs.
We're not quite working together, but we're not actively sabotaging each other either, and for Quinn that might as well be a declaration of partnership.
Around noon, the crowd thickens considerably. The sun beats down hot and relentless, and I notice Quinn starting to flag. She's been on her feet since probably four this morning, the same as me, but she doesn't have the same physical reserves. Her smile is getting slightly strained, her movements a touch slower.
When there's a brief lull in customers, I slice off a choice piece of brisket, the meat practically melting against the knife, and load it onto a small paper plate with a scoop of my vinegar slaw.
Then I cross the polka-dot boundary line like it doesn't exist.
Quinn is reorganizing her macaron display, her back to me, and doesn't notice my approach until I'm right behind her. My shadow falls across her workspace. She has a fine tremor in her hands that suggests low blood sugar and exhaustion.
"Here." I hold the plate where she can see it without having to turn around.
She goes very still. "What are you doing?"
"Feeding you." I keep my voice low and even, non-threatening. "You haven't eaten anything all day."
"I had coffee."
"Coffee isn't food, little baker." I move closer, eliminating the last few inches of space between us. Not touching, but near enough that she'd feel my body heat. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine." But her protest is weaker than usual, lacking the sharp edge of genuine anger.
"Eat." I bring the plate around to her side, holding it at an angle where she can easily reach without having to fully acknowledge what I'm doing. "Just a few bites. Then you can go back to pretending your pink tape is an impenetrable wall."
She makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be pure exasperation. Her hand comes up slowly, hesitating, before she finally takes a small piece of brisket between her fingers and brings it to her mouth.
I observe as she eats, cataloging every micro-expression. The way her eyes close briefly in unwilling pleasure. The small, almost inaudible sound of satisfaction that escapes her throat. The way her shoulders drop a fraction, tension easing.
"Better?" I ask when she reaches for another piece.
"It's adequate," she mutters, but her fingers are already moving toward the slaw.
