"They had different flavor profiles!" I protest, throwing my hands up in mock defensiveness. "I couldn't possibly choose between them! What if someone came who didn't like rosemary? Or what if someone else had a passionate opinion about sea salt? I was being considerate!"
"You were panicking in the grocery store," he observes mildly, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.
"That too," I admit, unable to suppress my smile. "But in my defense, hosting is stressful, and you were being very calm and organized about everything, which somehow made me more nervous, not less."
He glances down at me, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in that subtle, devastating almost-smile that I love. "I know. That is why I organized them by flavor profile and salt content."
I stretch up on my toes to kiss his jaw. "Have I mentioned today that I love you?"
"Twice," he says, wrapping one massive arm around my waist and pulling me against his side. "Once this morning when I brought you coffee, and once this afternoon when I removed the dried paint from your favorite brush."
"Well, third time's the charm. I love you."
"I love you as well, Chantel." He presses a kiss to the top of my head, careful not to disturb the clip. "Even when you panic-purchase seventeen boxes of crackers."
The doorbell buzzes, and I feel a little jolt of excitement mixed with nerves. "Okay," I say, smoothing down the front of my vintage emerald dress, the nicest thing I own that doesn't have paint stains. "Show time."
Faugh releases me and moves toward the door with his characteristic calm, and I follow, bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet.
He opens the door to reveal my best friend Sienna, her girlfriend Maya, and my former coworker turned actual-friend Dev, all of whom are holding bottles of wine and looking slightly awed by the hallway.
"Holy shit," Sienna says immediately, staring up at Faugh. "You weren't kidding about the whole seven-feet-tall thing."
"Sienna!" I hiss, elbowing past Faugh to hug her. "You can't just?—"
"It is an accurate assessment," Faugh says mildly, stepping aside to let them in. "I am seven feet and one inch. Please, come inside."
Maya hands him a bottle of red, and she does a visible double-take at the sheer size of his hand as he accepts it. "Thank you for having us," she says politely. "Your home is beautiful."
"Chantel decorated," Faugh says immediately, which is a generous lie considering his organizational influence is visible in every clean line and perfectly placed surface.
Dev, who has been silently staring at Faugh with the kind of fascination usually reserved for natural disasters, finally finds his voice. "Dude," he says. "You're huge."
"Yes," Faugh agrees.
"Dev, stop being weird," I say, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the living room. "Come on, there's cheese."
Over the next thirty minutes, the rest of my friend group trickles in, including Jordan, who immediately makes a beeline for the charcuterie board and starts asking Faugh extremely detailed questions about meat curing techniques, and Priya, who takes one look at our immaculate apartment and loudly announces that she is moving in.
"Absolutely not," Faugh says calmly. He reaches across the coffee table with one massive hand and refills Priya's wine glass with practiced precision, the bottle looking almost delicate inhis grip. "Chantel has already filled the second bedroom with canvases. There is barely space to open the door."
"I could sleep on the couch!" Priya protests, gesturing dramatically at the pristine furniture in question. "I'm very flexible. Very low-maintenance."
"The couch is Italian leather and cost more than your car," Faugh says, not unkindly, simply stating this as one might cite a historical fact. "Additionally, it has already been professionally cleaned twice this month."
"Faugh, stop telling people how expensive our furniture is," I laugh, reaching over to swat at his arm—or at least attempt to, given that his bicep is roughly the size of my head. The gesture is more symbolic than effective, but he gives me that subtle twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. "You're going to give everyone the impression you're a snob."
"I am simply stating facts," he replies with absolute deadpan sincerity, which somehow makes it even funnier.
The energy shifts slightly when the doorbell buzzes again, and Faugh moves to answer it. I trail after him, curious, and watch as he opens the door to reveal three absolutely massive figures standing in the hallway.
These must be his bouncer friends.
The first one through the door is another Orc, though slightly shorter than Faugh and built like a brick wall, with deep green skin and intricate tattoos running up both arms. "Faugh," he says warmly, clasping Faugh's forearm in what looks like a bone-crushing greeting. "Your building is very clean."
"Thank you, Gralt," Faugh says. "This is Chantel."
Gralt turns to me, and I have to crane my neck back to meet his eyes. "The mate," he says, and his whole face breaks into a huge grin. "Faugh has spoken of nothing else for months. It is good to finally meet you."
