Malcolm and I do end up hiding in the living room. A racket comes from the kitchen—the clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of veggie bacon, and the aroma of biscuits baking. I cradle a cup of coffee, and if the steam doesn’t do much to cool my cheeks, at least it clears my head.
Malcolm paces. He’s set his cup on the mantelpiece and pauses after each lap around the living room for a sip.
“You know,” he says, after he’s logged at least a quarter mile. “This isn’t the way I pictured the next morning. I was hoping to cook you breakfast in bed.”
“I still had to get up to make the coffee,” I point out.
He makes terrible coffee. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why since he’s so good at everything else.
“I make okay coffee,” he says.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. Ask Nigel.”
“But—”
“I’
