His eyes narrow a fraction. "What did the ex do?"
The question catches me off guard. My jaw tightens. The noise of the brawl swells around us, bodies and furniture rearranging themselves with great enthusiasm, and for one stupid second my throat closes up because nobody has asked me that. Not once. Not my mother, not my friends, not a single person at Petunia's four engagement parties.
"He left," I say. The words taste stale. "That's all."
Something shifts behind those amber eyes. Something I can't read and don't want to.
"The contract," he says, and pulls the invitation closer with that one massive finger. "Three days. What are the specific parameters?"
"Friday through Sunday. Rehearsal dinner Friday night. Golf tournament Saturday morning, which, I know, but it's a country club, they can't help themselves. Reception Saturday evening,black tie. Sunday brunch and departure." I tick each event off on my fingers. "You'll need a tuxedo. I budgeted for a rental."
"I own a tuxedo."
That stops me. "You own a tuxedo."
"Problem?"
"No, I just..." An orc mercenary with his own formal wear. File that away. "Great. Saves me forty gold."
He picks up his tankard. Takes a slow pull. Sets it back down with mechanical precision in the exact same ring of condensation.
"My rate for a three-day contract is two thousand."
"I have fifteen hundred."
"Then you have a problem."
"I have fifteen hundred and I can make the best chocolate croissant you've ever put in your mouth."
Something flickers across his face. Gone before I can catch it.
"I'm a baker," I add, gesturing at myself as if the flour on my collar and the burn scar on my wrist aren't already screaming it. "Magnolia's on Birch Street. The one with the blue awning."
Recognition. Just a flash. "The cinnamon rolls."
"You know my cinnamon rolls?"
"I've... walked past."
A troll barrels out of the crowd.
Not toward the bar. Not toward the exit. Towardme. Eight feet of mossy gray skin exhaling the stench of a compost heap, one meaty hand already reaching for my shoulder, glassy eyes locked on the bag of gold sitting open on the table.
I don't even get the scream out.
The orc moves. His left arm sweeps across the space between us, and his backhand connects with the troll's chest. The sound is a thunderclap. Wet. Absolute. The troll's feet leave the ground. All eight feet of him sails backward through the air, clears twotables and a card game, and crashes into the far wall hard enough to crack the plaster.
The orc's hand settles back on his tankard. Same position. Same grip. His eyes never left my face.
The tavern goes quiet for one full heartbeat. Then the cheese argument resumes and the noise floods back in like nothing happened.
My heart bangs against my ribs. My mouth hangs open. Ale drips from a strand of my hair onto the table.
He lifts the tankard. Sips.
"Fifteen hundred," he says, "and a standing weekly order of cinnamon rolls. For one year."
I close my mouth. Open it. Close it again.
