The angry beeping of the oven alerted Ophelia to the fact that her croissants were very much done and, if she didn’t get off her sorry butt and stop daydreaming about kissing vampires in caves, they’d be overdone and she’d have to make a whole new batch.

She scrambled over and flung the door open, reaching into the billowing heat to retrieve the flakey pastries. Sighing with relief, she thanked the universe for not allowing her to burn them.

Njinga was due in ...