The microwave dinged as Joe flipped the last pancake. Everything else was already laid out on the lap desk he was using as a serving tray. All that was missing was the warmed syrup—check—and Fess’s full plate.
Two pancakes later, that was a check, too.
“You only get this if you’re already in bed,” he called out.
He heard the springs squeak as Fess moved around, either just getting on as Joe suspected or bouncing to let him know he’d satisfied his end of the bargain. Balancing the desk as best he could, he carried it to the bedroom, grateful Fess had left the door open so he wouldn’t have to grow another arm to get inside.
Fess sat against the headboard, bare to the waist, the navy blanket covering his legs. “You realize for most people, breakfast in bed is just a euphemism, right?” he
