The apron, in all its horrifying glory, comes into view.
I press my lips together, fighting a smile. It’s the headless cartoon body of a man—hairy chest, round beer belly, one hand clutching a spatula, the other proudly holding a plate of burgers.
“What?” he asks, looking down. Realization dawns. “Oh. The apron. Birthday present from my youngest sister. She’s eight. She thinks it’s hilarious.”
“It’s a very…” I search for diplomacy. “…colorful representation. It suits you.”
“That is absolutely not the vibe I was going for,” he mutters, but his mouth curves anyway. “Anyway. I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I made… kind of everything?”
I look at the spread again. “This is kind of everything?”
“Well, yeah.” He shrugs, like this is just math. “First morning as husband and wife. Figured we should start it right.” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Although, for the record, I find the constraints of conventional eating habits unsustainable.”
I blink. “Do you?”
“Only three meals a day?” He scoffs. “Who’s surviving on that?”
I climb onto one of the stools at the island. “Three meals a day isn’t enough for you?”
He shakes his head, deadly serious. “Absolutely not. It takes at least seven square meals and a few snacks to keep up the stamina and maintain a body that looks like this.”
He smirks.
My jaw drops before I can help it. “Seven meals… you’re joking.”
“Nope.” He grabs a plate and starts piling food onto it—pancakes, eggs, bacon, like he’s building a monument. “Okay, let’s see… there’s Snack-fast—”
“Which is…?”
“The snack I eat while making breakfast.” He says it as if this is self-evident. “Usually a big protein shake.”
“Of course,” I say slowly. “Then?”
“Then breakfast,” he gestures to his plate. “This. Though normally I’d put protein powder in the pancakes, I wasn’t sure if you’d be into that, so I showed restraint.”
I try to imagine myself eating all of that and feel my stomach flip in self-defense. “What’s next?”
“Brunch,” he says. “Obviously. Usually, a stop at Serendipity’s for their lunch special. BLT croissant or chicken salad on homemade sourdough. Plus a sticky bun.”
“You and sourdough,” I murmur.
“Don’t knock it until you try it,” he says. “If my mother had tried to arrange a marriage between the chef at Serendipity’s and me, I probably would’ve agreed.”
I let out a short laugh.
“Have you been to Serendipity’s Coffee Shop yet?” he asks.
“No. What’s Serendipity’s?”
The way his eyes light up is just… unfair. “Don’t worry. The girls will drag you there soon. You’ll never want to leave.”
“And that’s not lunch?” I ask.
“No, that’s brunch,” he says, like we’re in school. He reaches for the syrup and pours it over his pancakes, warm amber spilling down the stack. He catches me watching. “Carb load,” he explains.
“Right. So lunch.”
“Lunch is usually the pizza place down the street—all-you-can-eat buffet—or 5th Street Cafe. Bozeman’s got a crush on one of the waitresses there, and we all like to watch him sweat. Lunch plus entertainment. Sometimes we go to Oakley’s for burgers and shoot pool instead.”
