“He’s a teenager. You hate teenagers.”
Diem chuckled, smacked my ass, and rolled out of bed. “I’ll make coffee.”
A flood of warmth filled my belly, erasing all animosity, and I groaned. “No fair. My kryptonite.”
***
Diem and I had a morning routine that worked for us. On the days he went to the gym—which was practically every day—I showered at leisure and enjoyed a peaceful bowl of Frosted Flakes while scrolling my socials, updating myself on all the Hollywood gossip, and texting Memphis.
Diem typically got home while I was eating—sometimes with coffee and a treat. He fed Echo and showered before scrambling six eggs and frying a thick slab of peameal bacon to go with two slices of buttered toast and half an avocado—he liked to mash it on the toast. It was no wonder he rarely ate much for lunch.
While he consumed breakfast, I whipped up a protein shake for him to take to the office—because six eggs weren’t enough, apparently. We either headed out in separate vehicles or went together, depending on the day and where I had to be.
That morning, the unwanted houseguest threw a wrench in our routine. By the time I dragged myself out of bed and found something suitable to wear to work—these things took time—Darcy claimed the bathroom, showering again.
I stared at the wooden door for a full minute, contemplating the various ways I’d learned to get away with murder.
Luckily for Darcy, I was too tired to follow through on any of them. Grumbling, I aimed for the kitchen—double-checking Baby was safely in her terrarium—figuring I’d start with coffee and cereal instead. Only, the carton of milk wasn’t in its usual spot in the fridge. When I located it in the trash bin, I discovered it was empty.
Whimpering, I closed the lid. “Diem, he drank my milk.”
Diem didn’t miss a beat, found a box of pancake mix in a high cupboard, and informed me he would make waffles instead.
I pouted. “With chocolate chips?”
“Do we have any?”
“No.” I collapsed at the table and sulked. “I ate them with peanut butter last week.”
Diem found frozen blueberries instead. Not the same.
“Those are for your smoothies.”
“It’s fine.”
A creamy, sugary coffee appeared in front of me, and my sour mood lightened a fraction.
Diem whisked the ingredients and poured batter into a waffle maker before snapping the lid closed. They took about two minutes, and while they cooked, he marched down the hall to the bathroom.
He pounded a fist on the door and shouted, “Unless you’re paying the water bill, your shower is finished. Food will be on the table in five minutes. If you’re hungry, move your ass, or Tallus will eat all the waffles.”
The water cut off, and Darcy yelled, “Coming. Sorry.”
I sipped my coffee and surreptitiously spied on Diem as he returned to the waffle iron and transferred the first batch onto a plate before pouring more batter into the machine. He acted like this was any other normal day, like housing, clothing, feeding, and parenting a practical teenager was second nature.
Darcy appeared and dropped into the seat across from me, hair dripping wet and wearing more of my clothes. Did he help himself this time? Rude. He smelled like my expensive body wash, too.
Diem deposited a stack of waffles in the middle of the table. When Darcy moved to grab one with his hand, Diem swatted the snaking appendage with a fork.
“Ow.” Darcy retracted it with a jolt and rubbed the injury.
“Get a plate and utensils.”
“I don’t know where they are.”
Diem glared.
Darcy blinked confusedly for a minute before pushing back from the table, clearly wounded. “I’ll look,” he mumbled.