Page 13 of Honey Mead Murder

“Aren’t they sweet?” Margo had definitely moved closer. He heard the click of another photo. “I have to send these to his parents. Oh my—”

“I can hear you.” George surprised Murphy by speaking.

Murphy helped George sit up. The two dogs continued to snooze away in his lap. “What were you two doing outside for so long?”

“Not snoozing on the couch in a little cuddle pile.” Margo heaved a sigh. She set her phone on a nearby table. “Why don’t we all have some breakfast? I’m sure you three are more than ready for a lengthy nap. Some food will do you good.”

Treacle dashed off his lap immediately when Margo and Evan moved towards the kitchen. Bumble was more lackadaisical. George reached out to lift him up and set him on the ground, which made the pug quite put out if the grunting was any sign.

“Don’t be sassy, Bumble. Brekkie doesn’t magically appear in front of you.” George frowned. “Though, I suppose it does from your perspective.”

Murphy always loved how George had entire conversations with his dog. “Maybe breakfast will magically appear for all of us if we migrate into the kitchen.”

“Or, you can migrate to the kitchen and give me a hand with what I’d already made. Tea definitely needs redoing. No one likes an over-stewed brew.” Margo grabbed the pot off the round table, emptying it into the sink. “Let me get the kettle going again. George? You awake enough to pop some crumpets into the toaster?”

“How awake does one have to be?” George asked with a grin.

“Less snark, more crumpets.”

EIGHT

GEORGE

Breakfast had been quieter than George expected. Instead, they’d all found themselves exhausted. The late night (or early morning) had caught up with all four of them.

Margo had clung to her mug of tea, nodding off in her chair. George had told her to head off to bed, promising to clean up for her. Murphy had helped after Evan left; he’d ordered them to keep him updated on any changes.

They let the dogs run in the back garden, then locked things up for Margo. George fished in his pocket for his keys and leaned tiredly against his beat-up old Range Rover.

“So, what are you planning for our second date?” He closed his eyes to relieve some of the itchiness. They were dry and gritty. He wanted nothing more than to splash warm water on his face and then sink into his bed for the rest of the day. “Are we going to find ourselves in the middle of a bank robbery or something as an encore?”

“It’d feel no less dramatic.” Murphy came over to lean next to him. Bumble sat at their feet, happily panting away and watching a butterfly flitting around the front garden. “You never did tell us what you and Margo had been doing.”

“Why don’t we get some sleep first? Everything will make more sense when I haven’t been up for twenty-four hours.” George was sure anything he said at this point would be as clear as mud. “How about I give you a ride back to the brewery?”

“You sure you’re awake enough? You’ve got a couch. Mind if I crash on it?”

“Probably safer than risking a car accident because we’re so sodding tired.” George was almost tempted to walk, but he wasn’t sure he had the energy for it. “Come on, Bumble. Time to go home.”

The short drive to the cottage was uneventful. George barely managed a wave in the direction of the couch before collapsing onto his bed. He didn’t even take off his shoes; he was asleep before his head had fully touched the pillow.

From the sun's position through the window, George knew he’d slept longer than expected. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand to confirm it was just gone noon. Poor Bumble was probably ready to burst.

Scrambling out of bed, George rushed into the living room to find Bumble and Murphy sharing a sandwich. They both seemed quite content. He stumbled to a halt and stared at them.

“He wake you up?”

“Thought he was going to lick my nose off.” Murphy offered Bumble a little sliver of ham. “Graeme and Maisie brought sandwiches along with my vehicle. There’s a whole plate of these in the fridge. I took your little one for a walk, since he seemed desperate for the garden.”

“Probably was.” George rubbed his eyes to get the sleep out of them. He noticed the tall cup on the table in front of him. “Is that a cold brew?”

“Yep.” Murphy smirked at him. “There’s one in the fridge for you. Strawberry cream cold brew, just how you like it. Apparently, the barista knew you by name?”

“They know Bumble. Not me.” George went to the Dufftown café at least once a week. They had a bowl especially for his dog and always filled it with whipped cream for him. “He’s a rock star. I’m just the minion who lugs him around.”

“At least you know your place.” Murphy laughed when Bumble placed a paw on his leg and nudged the plate in his hand. “How much can he have?”

“He’s probably already had enough.” George went into the kitchen to find the plate and, more importantly, his strawberry cream cold brew. He took a long sip, finishing with a very satisfied smile. “I suddenly feel human again.”

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