The heavy steel doors of the private elevator slid apart with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
The immediate scent hitting Ryan's lungs was a sharp, conflicting mix of aged espresso, burning cedar from the living room hearth, and the unmistakable, acrid bite of severely charred carbohydrates.
He stepped off the carriage and onto the thick Persian rug of the Tribeca penthouse foyer. Zara followed a half-step behind, sliding the heavy camel coat off her shoulders. The ambient temperature of the loft was a flawless seventy-two degrees, instantly thawing the bitter, freezing sleet of the New York morning clinging to their clothes.
"I told you," Sophie's voice echoed from the kitchen, sharp and laced with profound irritation. "The toaster oven operates on a parabolic heating curve. You can't just set it to 'dark' and walk away to compile a secondary firewall sequence."
