Maggie Russo drives north to Teakettle Bay with a pitch deck and a binder, intending to research one specific café from the outside for a marketing accelerator competition. She takes the barista job instead.
The owner is Harsk Olenden — six foot ten, modestly tusked, fifteen years grumpy, and silent about the fact that the moment she walked through his door at 5:43 a.m. his chest did what orcish chests do exactly once in a lifetime.
A corporate chain opens across Main Street in six weeks. She has a secret. So does he.
Pour decisions all around.
