“Well…” He gave me an uncertain smile. “You’re here now. And everything’s still in the fridge.” “It’s nearly six. That’s not brunch, it’s…brinner?” “Does it matter?” “Wow. You rebel, you.” “Oh yes, that’s me. Sticking two fingers up at society and its normative concept of mealtimes.” “So.” I tried to sound casual, but I was about to touch on something very serious indeed. “This…brunch…brinner…punk-rock rejection of the egg-based status quo… Will there be French toast?” Oliver flicked up a brow. “There could be. If you’re very good.” “I can be good. What sort of good did you have in mind?” “I
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