Not her.
Quinn Hayes stormed into my shop like she owned all five feet and change of fury wrapped in a flour-dusted apron and a dress that belongs in a museum dedicated to human courtship rituals from seventy years ago. She didn't flinch when I turned around. Didn't step back when I moved closer. Just planted herfeet in those ridiculous little shoes and glared up at me like I'm the one being unreasonable.
In my freezer.
In my shop.
After she barged through my back door without knocking.
I pick up the cleaver again, testing its weight in my palm. The bone saw incident was unfortunate. I'll admit that. I didn't account for the wall being quite so thin, or for the fact that my new neighbor apparently works hours that rival my own. The building inspector assured me the structure could handle the equipment, but he clearly didn't consider the acoustic properties of century-old brick when a blade hits frozen bone at precisely the wrong angle.
Still.
The way her cheeks flushed, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the absolute fearlessness in her voice when she called me out?—
My mouth curves despite myself.
That is not fear. That is territorial fury, and it's possibly the most attractive thing I've witnessed in years.
I return to the elk, methodically working through the shoulder joint. The rhythm of butchery usually clears my head, the clean separation of muscle from bone, the satisfaction of a perfect cut. Today my mind keeps circling back to the image of Quinn Hayes standing in my workspace, backlit by the harsh fluorescents, looking like some kind of avenging pastry angel.
You destroyed my cake.
The genuine devastation under the anger in her voice makes my hands still for a moment. I know that feeling. The hours of careful work obliterated by something outside your control. I've lost entire sides of beef to power outages, watched a week's worth of dry-aging ruined by a faulty temperature gauge. It's a specific kind of frustration that only craftspeople understand.
And she is a craftsperson. I saw it in the precision of her movements, the paint-splattered apron, the dusting of what looked like sugar across her cheekbone. She didn't storm over here because she's delicate or easily offended. She came because I damaged something she created, something that mattered.
I respect that.
The shoulder separates cleanly, and I move to the hindquarter, my hands working on autopilot while my thoughts drift to territory I haven't explored in longer than I care to admit. Orc courtship is straightforward. Honest. When you find someone worth pursuing, you prove you can provide, protect, and match their strength. You don't play games. You don't hint. You demonstrate value through action.
Quinn Hayes has fire. She has skill. She holds her ground even when facing down someone twice her size in an unfamiliar space.
In my mother's generation, a woman like that would have had suitors lined up around the block.
The thought makes me pause, cleaver hovering over the femur.
I'm getting ahead of myself. Way ahead. She's my neighbor. She's human. She's currently furious with me, and rightfully so. The last thing I need is to make this situation more complicated by indulging in the part of my brain that recognizes a worthy mate when he sees one.
Even if she did look magnificent covered in righteous anger and powdered sugar.
I finish the primary breakdown and start portioning the cuts. Shanks for osso buco. Backstrap for medallions. The ribs will go into the smoker later this week. My hands move efficiently, but my mind refuses to settle.
The proper thing to do is apologize. Truly apologize, not the half-hearted attempt I made when she was already leaving.Maybe offer to compensate her for the ruined cake. That's what a reasonable person would do.
But I'm not just a reasonable person. I'm an Orc, raised in a traditional family, taught that actions speak infinitely louder than words. An apology without substance is meaningless. If I'm going to make this right, I need to do it properly.
I need to show her I'm not just some careless neighbor with loud equipment and poor timing.
I glance at the cuts laid out before me. The tenderloin gleams under the lights, marbled with perfect fat, aged to ideal tenderness. It's destined for a high-end restaurant downtown, part of my weekly standing order, but?—
No. Not the tenderloin.
My eyes drift to the aging room, to the carefully monitored racks where I keep my personal projects. The dry-aged tomahawk steaks have been hanging for forty-five days, developing the concentrated flavor and butter-soft texture that only time and patience can create. I was saving them for the family gathering next month, planning to show off the quality of the new shop's capabilities.
But this is more important.
I move to the aging room, feeling the temperature shift from freezing to carefully controlled coolness. The tomahawks hang in a row, each one a work of art. Thick ribeye caps still attached to eighteen inches of pristine bone, the meat dark and dense from the aging process. I select the best one, running my thumb along the marbling, checking the texture.
