Maybe he's finally getting the message.
The music switches to a particularly upbeat track about summer romance and dance floors, all soaring vocals and relentless electronic beats. I'm halfway through the second chorus, carefully positioning a cascade of edible flowers, when the music cuts off mid-note.
Just stops.
Dead silence except for the residual hum of the industrial fan still running outside.
I freeze, piping bag suspended in midair, and slowly turn toward the back security window.
The window that I opened earlier to help vent some of the heat from the ovens.
The window that suddenly frames a forearm the approximate size and color of a small tree trunk, deep green skin decorated with intricate black tribal tattoos. Thick fingers wrapped aroundmy speaker, which he's currently holding through the window like it weighs nothing at all.
I watch, frozen in place, as the massive hand calmly unplugs the auxiliary cord from my phone.
"Lanek."
My voice comes out remarkably steady considering my heart is currently attempting to jackhammer its way through my ribcage. I set the piping bag down and cross my arms, which is difficult when they want to shake.
The arm doesn't withdraw. If anything, it extends further into my space, setting the now-silent speaker down on the stainless steel prep table just inside the window. His hand is genuinely enormous, dwarfing the equipment surrounding it.
"Your flour clogged my ventilation system," his voice rumbles from outside, carrying through the open window with that same low, deliberate quality that makes every word feel weighted. "My entire shop is white. The customers thought it was snowing inside."
"Oh no," I say flatly. "How terrible for you."
"Quinn." There's something in the way he says my name, a warning wrapped in patience, that makes my spine straighten automatically. "This is childish."
"Childish?" I take three steps toward the window, which brings me close enough to see more than just his arm. His face appears in the opening, and even crouched down to window-height, he's still massive. Flour dusts his dark hair and clings to his eyebrows, making him look absurdly ghost-like against his deep green skin. "You woke me up with a bone saw at five AM. You destroyed my wedding cake. You left raw meat like some kind of deranged cat bringing home a kill, and I'm the one being childish?"
"The steak was not raw. It was carefully aged and?—"
"I don't care!" The words burst out louder than intended, and his eyes widen slightly. Not in anger. Something else. Something that looks almost like fascination. "So what about the marbling or the aging process or whatever Orc cultural significance you think it has. We're neighbors, Lanek. Neighbors. That means we coexist professionally without leaving biological matter on each other's property or starting up industrial equipment before the sun rises!"
"It was 6:15."
"Still dark!"
"Barely."
I make a sound that's half shriek, half laugh, and grab the nearest thing I can reach, which happens to be a bag of confectioner's sugar. "Get your arm out of my bakery right now or I swear I will dump this entire bag on your head."
He doesn't move. Just watches me with those dark eyes, utterly calm, like I'm a particularly entertaining television program he's enjoying. Flour still dusts his shoulders and clings to the thick column of his neck.
"You're covered in flour," he observes mildly.
I glance down. He's right. White powder coats my vintage floral dress, my apron, probably my hair. I look like I lost a fight with a bag of all-purpose.
"Your point?"
"We match."
The observation is so absurd, delivered with such genuine sincerity, that I almost laugh. Almost. Instead, I tighten my grip on the confectioner's sugar and take another step forward.
"Lanek," I say, forcing the word through gritted teeth while my knuckles turn white around the bag of sugar. "Move. Your. Arm."
He doesn't even blink. Just keeps that massive forearm wedged through my security window like it belongs there, utterlyunmoved by my threat or my tone. "Will you turn off the fan?" he asks, his voice maddeningly reasonable, like we're negotiating the terms of a perfectly normal business transaction instead of having a turf war through a metal window frame.
The audacity. The absolute, unmitigated gall of this man.
