Chapter 8: Breakfast Rules

By the fifth Sunday, Margaret had a key to the penthouse and a standing order for eggs.

She let herself in at eight with a brown paper bag and a pot of her own rose jam.

"Don't get up," she called. "Just come when you smell the bacon."

I was already up, because Rowan was in the kitchen in a gray t-shirt, frying it.

He hadn't asked me to come and watch, but I had come anyway, and I sat on the counter in his old college sweatshirt.

"You're wearing his clothes," Margaret said, hanging up her coat.

"They're warm."

"Mm-hm. And whose toothbrush is that in the master bathroom?"

"Mine," I said.

Rowan flipped the bacon without turning around.

"Rule two is technically intact," he said. "Willa has a guest room."

"Willa has a guest room she hasn't slept in since the first night," Margaret said.

"Rule two, husband," I said, and pointed my spatula at him. "You wrote it. You're the one who keeps throwing it back at me."

"I've never thrown it at you."

"You threw it at me nine times last week. Every night around ten."

"I said it once. Nine times is a rumor."

"Then let's break it again tonight and see how it feels."

Margaret put both hands over her ears and said, "I'm sixty-one."

The doorbell rang.

Jodie came in without waiting, with her red curls piled on her head and a box of donuts held over her head.

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