John shook his head. “My parents weren’t really the type to impart wisdom. They would have gotten a maid to do it, or hired a tutor. I guess they didn’t think cooking was something I needed to do myself. Instead I learned how to ride horses and play piano and speak four languages. You know, the really important skills you need to get through life.”

“So, when it comes to practical knowledge . . .”

“Yeah, I’m pretty much lacking in that area.”

Zack waggled an eyebrow at him. “Well, that’s okay. I can do the cooking and work on our cars, and you can negotiate with the prime ministers and make sure I don’t try to eat soup with a salad fork.”

John laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”

Zack left his perch long enough to flip the bacon and then returned. “Tell me more.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

“What do you want to know?”

Zack considered the query. “Let’s start easy. What’s your full name?”

“It’s actually kind of funny. John William Scott. All my names are first names.”

“I like it. What about your childhood? I’m curious. I bet it was way different from mine.”

John shrugged. “It was kind of lonely. I’m an only child, and I didn’t have many friends growing up. My classmates were nice, I guess, but they were all stuffy boarding school kids. I didn’t want to play with a bunch of miniature versions of my parents.”

“There weren’t any other little rebels you could get into trouble with?”

“Decidedly not. No one ever acted out. At least, not publicly. We all had bright futures to think of, which allowed no room for rebellion. The kids who did get into trouble disappeared off to military school before they could give the rest of us any ideas. That was like a prison sentence.”

Zack made a thoughtful humming sound and pretended to be absorbed in the task of moving the cooked bacon from the pan to a paper towel. Some of John’s complexes were beginning to make more sense to him, as was the fact that he’d ever called Zack in the first place. It was his escape from the rules and regulations that dominated his life.

Zack swallowed his thoughts and asked, “How do you like your eggs?”

“Scrambled.”

Zack clicked his tongue. “Well, at least there’s one normal thing about you. I half expected you to say poached.”

He opened cabinets until he found a mixing bowl. He cracked four eggs into it and beat them with a whisk he procured from a drawer. He added a splash of milk and some cheese. When it was ready, he poured the egg mixture into the pan. The bacon grease made a pleasant crackling sound.

“Bacon eggs,” he said reverently. “To go with our bacon bacon.”