“Don’t sit on the counter! That’s so unhygienic.”

“What? I’m wearing clean pants.”

“Yeah and you’ve been sitting in all sorts of places.”

He rolled his eyes and hopped down to sit on a bar stool, like he should’ve done in the first place. I glared at him then grabbed a cloth from the sink to give the whole countertop a wipe down. God only knew how many butts had been on this thing.

“Okay, hit me with the sexy menu,” Brougham said, sliding his reading glasses on. “I’ll type it up and laminate it while you get ready.”

“Don’t title it ‘the sexy menu,’ though, okay?” I said. “Just ‘menu’ is fine.”

Brougham pulled a face that indicated he disagreed, but didn’t argue.

“We’re starting with garlic-butter oysters in puff pastry, followed by roast figs, potatoes, and asparagus in chili and lime sauce, and ending with chocolate-covered strawberries.”

Brougham noted it all down, then tipped his head to one side. “Are they pescatarian?”

“Nope. I was just on a bit of a budget after I bought the projector.”

“Cool, just checking. Hold on. DAD?”

One of the main reasons we decided to do this at Brougham’s house—outside of the general ambiance of his backyard, that is—was that Brougham’s mom was over in Vegas this weekend at a friend’s bachelorette party. I’d been assured multiple times that Mr. Brougham wasn’t so bad when he wasn’t arguing with his wife. This was my time to find out, I guessed.

In fact, this was my first time seeing Brougham’s father in person. As he walked into the kitchen, I was struck by how little he resembled his son. He had thinning, soft brown hair that might have once been curly, and was stocky where Brougham was naturally slight, with a neck that stood like a solid block, not a curve in sight.

Given the arguments over Mrs. Brougham’s fidelity, I couldn’t help but wonder if the lack of resemblance was a point of contention for the family.

“What’s up, mate?” Mr. Brougham asked. Then he nodded at me with a smile as reserved as Brougham’s usually was. “Hi. Darcy? Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“Are we using the duck in the fridge?” Brougham asked.

His dad leaned one hand against the counter. “Not for anything in particular. Your mother was going to cook it last night, until she got busy.”

Reading between the lines, that sounded like another argument had gone down last night.

Brougham pushed past the dig at his mom. “Can we use it?”

Mr. Brougham stuck out his lip and made a show of considering it. “Only if you cook it properly and I can have some for dinner.”

Brougham scoffed. “Have I ever not cooked something properly?”