| BOOK FOUR | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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Smoke alarms caterwauled.
Wafting thick, black smog from the air, I fumbled with a tea towel, pulled open the conventional oven door and extracted the baking tray of chocolate chip cookies.
Well, what's left of their cremated remains.
At least they smell passable.
I could cover them in icing and sprinkle on some edible dust.
Disguising disastrousness is not an acceptable method, though.
I am a diabolical tragedy.
My lips pressed together.
Inspecting the desiccated delicacies, Dave bit the inside of his cheek. "I don't know what to say."
"We can dust them off." I tried to pick one up, and ash disintegrated through my fingers. "Why am I so catastrophically stupid?"
"Lower the heat," he said ever so matter-of-factly. "Better to be safe than sorry." Adjusting the oven's temperature, he placed a tray of newly arranged cookies onto the middle shelf. "If all else fails, keep your eyes on the window. It is foolproof."
Easy for you to say, Chef Ramsay. I threaten whoever's within reach when I enter a kitchen and ignite flames. If I am not burning everything in sight, I am risking the likelihood of poisoning taste-testers.
To prevent further failures, I stood in front of the oven and watched the cookie dough rise, the chocolate drops melting. Once the rocky heaps tinted brown, I gingerly pulled the door down, slipped on a pair of heat resistant gloves and conveyed the baked goods to the stainless-steel countertop.
"On the heat rack," Dave advised, and I executed with a shit-eating grin on my face. "How do they look?"
I picked one up; it remained intact. "I did it."
Dave snatched the cookie and sank his teeth into molten perfection. "Mm," he groaned with a thumbs-up of approval. "Impeccable."
I might be a culinary overachiever, after all.
Matthew found me in the staffroom three hours later. "I thought you'd left." Loosening the collar of his polo shirt, he slumped onto the sofa next to me. "You didn't fancy drinks with staff either, huh?"
"Not tonight." Writing notes on this week's schedule, I recapped the pen and returned the magnetic clipboard to the fridge freezer. "Coffee?"
He smiled widely. "Please."
I prepared two mugs.
"How are you holding up?" he asked, and I mustered a tight head shake. "It's not the same around here since Samuel passed away. It's awful."
"Quiet," I added, and his head dipped. "Like everyone's afraid to smile again."
He blew out an audible sigh. "It bears guilt to move on and exist in the wake of another's death."
