“Or I could go for some chocolate cake.”
“For breakfast?” a gruff voice says from behind a headline about American football players mooning their superiors.
I make a thoughtful littlehmmsound, considering it.
“That’s not a balanced breakfast,” Grey says, appalled.
“If you think about it, a fried pancake slathered in butter and liquid sugar maple syrup isn’t either.”
“Pancakes are garbage food.”
I blink a few times, unsure I heard him correctly. “You don’t like pancakes?”
“I didn’t say I dislike them. I don’t approve of them.”
“Are you some kind of monster?”
He grunts.
“What are you having for breakfast?” I ask.
Before he answers, Arthur brings out a plate topped with stacked layers of what looks like sourdough toast, sliced turkey, baby spinach, mashed avocado, and poached eggs. I wrinkle my nose.
Arthur asks, “Anything else, sir?”
“Do you have hot sauce?”
“May I please have some hot sauce?” I correct.
Grey’s lips remain fastened in a thin and defiant line.
Arthur scuttles away, probably in search of hot sauce and a poking stick in case Grey gets ornery. My mémé, who lived outside Quebec City, used to walk five miles a day, weatherpermitting. She’d always carry a stick in case amouffette(that’s the stinky, black-and-white critter) got any wild ideas.
“Also, you were supposed to wait for me to order your breakfast.” I put on a little pout.
“I was hungry.” To my shock and surprise, Grey says a quiet blessing over his food.
“You spend too much time alone and have forgotten, or never learned, how to behave.”
“My mother would take offense.”
“I’m sure she’s a lovely woman and would appreciate that I’m reminding her son not to eat like a savage bandit who just stole a whole chicken and is eating it raw.”
“You paint a grisly picture.”
“Lose your appetite?” I chuckle.
He wipes his fingers and straightens. “I’m not alone too much. I’m with the guys on the team all the time.”
“Might I remind you that you’re allhere?”
I take his grunt to mean touché. Ha! Score for Team Everly.
Arthur drops off the hot sauce and hurries back to the safety of the sideboard table in the corner.
Despite my gentle coaching, Grey proceeds to inhale his breakfast like it might be his last meal. Never mind about the win. I didn’t realize that part comes with the caveman package—patent-pending, batteries not included.
I pump my hands. “Mr. Adams, slow down. I don’t want you to choke.”
