I had the perfect life. Until a seven-foot orc with tusks and a death wish opened a smoke-spewing barbecue joint directly across from my vegan fine-dining restaurant.
His name is Boris Cleaver. He cooks with fire pits on the sidewalk, flips entire cows like they’re pancakes, and looks at me like I’m the next item on his menu. I stormed in to shut him down.
He laughed, fed me a rib anyway, and somehow turned my entire world into chaos—sauce explosions, enchanted mushrooms on the loose, and one very illegal night trapped in his cellar where I learned orcs run dangerously hot.
Now we’re forced to work together for the biggest catering contract in Paris, and I can’t decide if I want to stab him with my tweezers or climb him like a very large, very annoying tree.
He’s loud. He’s messy. He’s ridiculously hot when he’s covered in soot. And the worst part? I’m starting to crave his smoke.
Don’t get me wrong. I still hate him. Mostly.
Read on for enemies-to-lovers kitchen chaos, forced proximity fire, grumpy-sunshine orc obsession, and a vegan chef who finally gets absolutely orc’d & loaded. HEA Guaranteed!
