The next morning, Mika and I both slept in. After luxuriating in the exquisite taste in sheets and mattresses that Santiago had for his guest rooms, we walked out into the living room to the smell of what could only be waffles.
Sure enough, there was Santiago in a pair of khakis and a polo, flipping over one of those professional waffle makers that I had only ever seen at hotel breakfast bars in the past. Across the peninsula in his kitchen, he had set out sliced strawberries, whipped cream, maple syrup, and some of the most amazing-looking sausage I had ever seen. Everything smelled wonderful, and it looked just as appetizing.
“If this is your normal morning,” Mika said, “I’m happy to pay rent.”
Santiago grinned. “You are welcome here anytime for my Sunday morning special.” He looked a
