Page 34 of Devil's Iris
I check my watch as I head downstairs. 8:38 AM. Knowing alcohol, no matter how sweet and sneaky it goes down, it’s likely she’ll wake up hungover and cranky.
I don’t exactlydecideto make her the hangover tea I learned a couple of years ago, back when clubbing and getting blackout drunk was still my thing. But by the time I hit the bottom of the stairs, my feet are already carrying me right—towards the kitchen.
When I step inside, I pause, eying the unfamiliar space. I don’t like strangers coming into my home, so I eat all my meals out at restaurants or order takeout. That means I haven’t had a single reason to use this room since I moved in four years ago.
I start opening cabinets randomly until I find the kettle and place it on the stove. While waiting for the water to boil, mymind wanders to ridiculous territory—like maybe she’ll wake up hungry.
Which is not my concern, goddammit. She’s a grown woman. She can figure out food for herself.
Still, I find myself tapping my finger on the marble island, wondering what kind of breakfast I can pull off without screwing it up. I pull out my phone and start scrolling through some recommended recipes.French toast? Too messy. Apple cinnamon oatmeal? Not risking mush. Smoothie? Feels like cheating.
I keep going until I land on pancakes and scrambled eggs. Simple. Safe. Two dishes even I shouldn’t be able to ruin. I might not have cooked in… well, maybe ever. But I’m a smart man. How hard can it be? The instructions are right there—step-by-step, idiot-proof.
I text the grocery list to Logan, my driver. He must be raising a brow at my sudden interest in domestic life, but he doesn’t question it, just replies with a simple ‘on it’. Satisfied, I check the fridge for the ingredients I already have for the hangover tea. I always keep them stocked—just in case—even though I haven’t been properly drunk in close to eight years now.
I wash the turmeric and grate it, wincing when my fingers stain bright orange. Shit. That’s going to be a pain to get off.I should have worn gloves.Once grated, I toss it into a mug, squeeze in some lemon, and add a dash of black pepper for better curcumin absorption—the active compound in turmeric.
Then I pour the now-boiling water in and cover the mug to let it steep. It needs honey for sweetness, but I never use it, so I don’t have any—and it didn’t cross my mind to add it to Logan’s list.
Oh, well. She’ll have to drink it as is. The taste isn’tthatbad.
Logan texts that he’s back, so I pour the leftover hot water down the sink and return the kettle to its spot before going to retrieve the groceries.
Back in the kitchen, I lay everything out, pull open drawers for pans and utensils, and take stock. Okay. I’ve got this. As a precaution, I had Logan buy over five times what the recipe calls for. Not because I’m nervous or anything. Just smart planning.
I crack a few eggs into a bowl, nodding to myself as I stir.
Yeah. I’ve got this.
I absolutely do not have this.
If there’s a hell for ruined breakfast foods, I’m definitely going there.
Another batch of charred pancakes and rubbery eggs meet their fate in the trash.
I followed every damn step, measured everything precisely, and yet the food looks like it belongs in a crime scene. I blow out a sharp breath, scanning the disaster that used to be my kitchen—flour everywhere, eggshells scattered across the counter, and what I’m pretty sure is pancake batter somehow splattered on the ceiling.
How the fuck did it get up there?
I should have paid Rafael’s chef from last night triple—hell, quadruple—what he asked for.The man’s a goddamn artist compared to my pathetic attempts at basic cooking.
I drag the back of my arm over my forehead, smearing flour into my hair. Perfect. Now I look as incompetent as I feel. But I’mnotgiving up. I’m Romero fucking Lombardi. I don’t get defeated by breakfast food. It’s just pancakes and eggs, for Christ’s sake.
Sure, I could let it go and order something before Leni wakes up, but now it’s personal. I need to prove I can do it.
I dust the flour off my hands and shirt, then pick up the eggs again and break them into the bowl. I’ll make thepancakes first this time. I stare at the recipe and carefully follow the measurements as I add the rest of the ingredients. Then comes the whisking—easily my favorite part. The hardest is adding the batter to the pan without the fucking thing burning.
This time, I watch the pan like a hawk, carefully controlling the heat. The batter hits with a satisfying sizzle, and miracle of miracles, it doesn’t immediately burn. One by one, I stack the pancakes onto a plate—not exactly the golden color in the video, but they’ll do. I smirk, my confidence starting to swell.
The eggs follow suit, scrambling properly without any shell fragments, their smell filling the kitchen with actual food aromas instead of smoke.
Ha! Look at me. There’s nothing Romero Lombardi can’t do.
I’m plating the eggs next to the pancakes when the kitchen door opens and Leni steps in. She’s still wearing the sexy skirt and top from last night—I couldn’t bring myself to undress her beyond removing her shoes when I put her to bed last night. But seeing her now, sleep-rumpled and gorgeous, makes me question my restraint.
Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun now, leaving just her bangs hanging above her brows, and though she’s clearly washed her face, faint sleep lines still crease her skin.
The ridiculous urge to run my fingers along those grooves, up to the short strands of her bangs, has me clearing my throat and quickly looking away.
