“It’s too early for trick questions,” Dash said in between brushing his teeth. “I plead the Fifth.”
Slate finished his hair and then nudged Dash over so they could share the sink. “Coward.”
The sound of the door rattling nearly caused Slate to spit his toothpaste on the mirror. They exchanged glances.
“Thomas seems to know what he’s doing,” Dash said, trying to check himself in the mirror. “Do I look like I just rolled out of bed?”
His hair was rebellious, his shirt was wrinkled, and there were pillow marks on his cheek, but that was how he looked most days before noon. He was also absolutely beautiful, sleep-warm, and perfect. “You look like you always do.”
“Shit.” Dash grabbed the brush and attempted to tame his hair again. “I ‘always’ look like I just got out of bed before lunchtime.”
The rattling stopped, followed by the sound of a key turning. Then more rattling. Thomasreallyhad done this before. “Thomas bought us exactly the time he promised.”
“This is a sign we need to change the locks,” Dash said. “I really like your parents, but showing up at ass o’clock in the morning and using their key to let themselves in while we’re sleeping is too much.”
Slate could think of worse times for his parents to barge in. “You’re right. I’ll need to have a discussion with them about boundaries now that this is our home.”
They were on the stairs headed down when the door finally opened. His father muttered about needing to fix the door, and his mother told him to ‘talk to Slate. It’s his house now.’ Which was utterly laughable since they thought nothing of coming in without knocking.
“Boys?” His mother’s voice carried up the main staircase. Slate had heard that tone before. It was her ‘time for you lazy kids to get up’ voice he’d hated as a kid. “We brought…”
She stopped mid-sentence as Slate and Dash appeared in the vestibule. Her deflated expression was worth the abrupt wake-up call. “Mom? Dad? What are you doing here?”
“We brought food.” She held up a brown paper bag. Behind her, his father had two more. “Thought we’d surprise you with breakfast.”
Marjorie Blackwood was many things, but someone who brought her kids breakfast for no reason wasn’t one of them. “More like you thought you’d catch us still asleep.”
“We nearly did, from the looks of things.” She marched toward the kitchen. “Come along, Cliff. We need to set up.”
“Thanks a lot, guys. It’s going to be my fault we didn’t get here before you woke up.” His dad gave them both a mock frown. “Coming, Marge.”
“Sorry, Mr. B,” Dash said. “Next time, tell Slate to let me sleep in.”
Walking toward the kitchen, Clifford muttered something about not wanting to know. Slate lingered for a few seconds, then pulled Dash aside. “Put ‘change the locks’ on the renovations list.”
The kitchen looked as if they were feeding twenty people for breakfast. Marge stood at the long counter, unpacking bags from the local diner. One by one she opened containers with scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, fresh fruit, and enough pastries to last a week. Cliff got plates and utensils, and then set the table.
Feeling useless in his own kitchen, Slate put the kettle on for his mother to have her morning tea and then made coffee. Dash joined him with four mugs and the tea box.
“Who is going to eat all this food?” he asked. “They even brought three kinds of juice—apple, orange, and cranberry.”
That sounded like her. “Did she say she wasn’t sure what we liked, so she brought a variety?”
“Yes!” he whispered. “She told me I looked too skinny the last time she saw me.”
“You are.” They both jumped at Marge’s voice inches behind them. “It’s not polite to whisper about people when they’re in the same room.”
Slate wanted to say it was acceptable when said people broke into the house just to embarrass said whisperers. “Since you heard everything, you know it wasn’t bad. But if we’re talking about manners, coming in unannounced like that isn’t in the book of best etiquette.”
“Pish posh.” She waved her jangly, bracelet-covered arm noisily. “I carried you for nearly ten months. I have the right to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. From the looks of it, you’re starving poor Dash.”
“Slate feeds me all the time,” Dash protested. “But I run a lot and have a naturally thin build.”
“Protein bars and leftover pizza don’t count as feeding you,” Marjorie said, going back to the counter. “Come have a proper breakfast.”
Dash shot Slate a look that said,you need to deal with this.Slate shrugged. He’d talk to them about the breaking and entering, but doing it to bring breakfast—that smelled amazing and made his stomach rumble—wasn’t the worst thing a parent could do.
After filling their plates and getting seated, they made small talk while they ate. Slate’s parents asked about the renovations, the preparation for the haunted house exhibit, and if they had plans for an engagement party.
