Jesus, Trinity. Lead with the sarcasm. That's definitely how you charm someone.
But instead of looking offended, his mouth quirks slightly. "You smell honest."
I blink. "I... what?"
"Your scent. Bread. Flour. Cinnamon." He says each word like he's cataloging ingredients. "Honest work. Good work."
Oh.He's talking about the baking I did earlier. Not exactly the smoothest compliment I've ever received, but there's something oddly sincere about his directness. Most guys would go withyou smell niceorgreat perfume. Korgan notices that I smell like my actual job.
"Thanks?" I venture. "I mean, I did make cinnamon rolls earlier, so..."
"Yes. I watched you work."
Watched me work.There's something about the way he says it that makes my pulse skip. Not creepy-stalker watched, but observed-with-interest watched. Like my competence was worth paying attention to.
"Did you want to try one? I made extras, and honestly, catering food is usually terrible?—"
"Your recipe is weak."
The words hit like a slap. I feel my face heat up, champagne flute tightening in my grip. "Excuse me?"
Korgan's heavy brows draw together, apparently confused by my reaction. "The structure lacks strength. Too much softness. Human baking prioritizes comfort over substance."
Oh, hell no.I've spent six years perfecting my cinnamon roll recipe. I've won state fair competitions with those rolls. Maya once said they were "better than sex," which admittedly wasn't saying much given her dating history, but still.
"Weak?" My voice rises enough that a few other conversations pause. "Those cinnamon rolls have a perfect laminated dough structure, balanced sweetness, and a texture that?—"
"I did not mean to insult?—"
"Well, you did. That recipe is a family secret passed down from my grandmother, and I've spent years refining the technique until?—"
"Wait." Korgan holds up one massive hand, looking genuinely alarmed. "I spoke poorly. Your bread is... good bread. Strong flavors. Proper construction."
"Strong flavors? Proper construction? You're describing a building, not pastry!"
"In orc culture, we say food should have strength. Foundation. Your rolls have both." He's clearly struggling with something, searching for words. "I meant... your work has integrity. Honest taste. Not artificial sweetness like..." He gestures vaguely at the elaborate catered spread. "Like theater food."
Oh.
I pause, champagne flute halfway to my lips. "You were... complimenting me?"
"Yes." Relief floods his expression. "Your baking has worth. Real worth."
It's possibly the most awkward compliment I've ever received, delivered with all the poetry of a construction manual. But there's something almost endearing about his genuine confusion at my reaction, the careful way he's trying to explain himself without making things worse.
"Right. Well." I take a sip of champagne, suddenly feeling ridiculous for snapping at him. "Thank you. I think."
"I am..." He searches for the word. "Apologetic? For speaking unclearly."
"You're apologetic," I correct automatically, then immediately regret it. "Sorry, I'm not trying to be a grammar teacher. It's just?—"
"No. Correction is helpful. English idioms are..." Another pause. "Challenging."
The honesty in his admission catches me off guard. Here's this intimidating orc warrior admitting linguistic vulnerability like it's no big deal. Most guys would rather die than acknowledge they don't know something.
"Your English is actually really good," I say, meaning it. "Better than some native speakers I know."
"Years of diplomatic training." There's something almost rueful in his tone. "Though clearly insufficient for casual conversation."
