His dad flourished a hand in my direction. “Is that a wise question to ask in front of your lady friend?”

At that, Brougham flushed pink. I cut in to change the subject. “If we can use the duck, we’ll have plenty to go around for everyone.”

“Go for it,” Mr. Brougham said. “Shout out if you need anything, hey? And don’t forget about the dishes. Just because the drill sergeant isn’t home doesn’t mean you get to slack off.”

“I would never.”

It was interesting watching Brougham interact with his dad. Unlike when he’d run into his mother, his body language remained relaxed, and even though he was very “polite mode: activate,” still, the air of tension that’d surrounded him with his mom just wasn’t here. I could see why he was keen to spend time at home while his mother wasn’t around. His not-mansion didn’t even seem quite as vast and empty to me.

As it turned out, Brougham wasn’t as hopeless in the kitchen as accused—he just had a bad habit of underestimating the cooking time of things. So, while we prepared the duck and chopped the vegetables, I explained and demonstrated the purposes of a kitchen thermometer to a fascinated Brougham. It took us longer than I’d initially hoped to get everything in the oven roasting, so we split tasks, with Brougham in charge of printing the menus and setting up the projector, and me looking after decorations.

Brougham’s backyard patio didn’t need much help to become a romantic paradise. Immediately outside the back doors was a huge patio area with masonry stone flooring, decorated with potted plants in stone planters, pastel flowers bordering the edges, and creeping vines spilling down the walls. A four-person outdoor dining setup, shaded by a brown umbrella, stood dead center, overlooking the Broughams’ enormous pool. The edges of the patio formed a semicircle against the house, and descended down to the garden in several wide steps, all illuminated by in-ground, warm yellow lights.

I got to work unraveling and tacking up string lights around the columns supporting the patio veranda and in some of the bushes and trees dotting the garden. A lit candle went in the center of the table, and then Brougham gave me a hand hiding the extension cords so they didn’t ruin the vibe. We’d just finished linking my Spotify to Brougham’s portable speaker when Ray walked out, having been apparently let in by Mr. Brougham.

“Wow,” she said, spinning around to take in the garden. She was dressed up, wearing a pair of black, skin-tight leather pants paired with a low-cut turquoise shirt and white heels. It seemed Brougham had effectively communicated tonight’s theme of fancy-slash-sexy. His words, not mine.