“So, how do you like your eggs in the morning?” Grant asked, when they finally made it downstairs to the kitchen. He still couldn't quite believe Jonathan knew all the words to that song from the orange juice ads.
Jonathan laughed and pulled him close for another kiss. “Depends on the morning. Anyway, I should be asking you that - you're the guest.”
“Scrambled, usually,” said Grant. “I do very good scrambled eggs.” His mother's scrambled eggs recipe was one of the better things about her.
“I'll look forward to that,” Jonathan said, and ran a finger down his back.
“Stop it, that tickles,” Grant said, wriggling away.
“Sorry,” said Jonathan unrepentantly. He'd be tickling him on purpose later, Grant could tell. Monster.
“I think today calls for huevos oaxaqueños,” Jonathan said.
“Huevos oaxaqueños,” Jonathan said, very pleased with himself. How anyone could be so smug and so hot at the same time was a mystery to Grant.
“Go on then, what is it?”
“Eggs cooked with tomatoes and fresh chillies,” said Jonathan. “Nearly blew my head off the first time I had it.”
“Sounds irresistible,” Grant said witheringly.
“It's the best thing in the world if you're short on sleep,” said Jonathan. “We'd just got off the all-night bus from Mexico City to Oaxaca and there was this little cafe in the square...”
Not a complete personality transplant, then, Grant thought as Jonathan embarked on a string of gap year reminiscences (“and there was this roadside diner that did scrambled eggs with cactus, really amazing, you should try it some time”). He could still be an annoying tosser as well as a fantastic shag. But an annoying tosser with hidden depths, Grant had to admit. And - as he was shortly to discover - one hell of a breakfast cook.