8
Sam wasn’t quite sure how it had happened.
“Sleep deprivation, gotta be,” he told the cold strudel dough he’d put in the fridge yesterday, and now pulled out onto the marble slab.
“Up way past my bedtime,” he mentioned to the ovens as he lit them off so that they’d be ready for today’s bake as soon as he was.
“Damn but that was a hell of a kiss,” he told no one and nothing in particular.
Sam usually hit the sack at seven or eight at night and was up and in the kitchen by three at the latest. It was four now and he was behind.
Last night at eight o’clock he’d been watching Patsy risk her life as she went to snag several pieces of pizza from the ravenous group at the hotshots’ table. He noted that she picked them up easily though they were still oven hot, usually a trick that only a
