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There’s a pop as the lid comes off the container. He sets it down, and I stand in front of the silverware drawer, blocking him from getting the knife he clearly needs to cut himself a slice of cake.
“You’re not helping. You’re standing around, eating cake that isn’t yours.”
“I’m not eating ityet,” he mutters. “You can’t expect me to work on an empty stomach.”
“So have a carrot,” I suggest, strongly.
He rolls his eyes and puts the lid back on the container. “Fine. I’ll have Rachel feed me cake later. Maybe I’ll eat it off her … That reminds me, do we have whipped cream?”
“You’re not turning our mate into a dessert.”
“Spoilsport,” he says with a sigh.
He goes to the fridge and rummages around.
“You can bring out the carrots and peas.”
He sighs even harder, but he does what I’ve asked.
I get the potatoes out of the small pantry next to the back door.
I hand-picked everything fresh a few days ago and it’s all still perfect.
Adrian comes into the kitchen in his boxer shorts and Carter shuts the fridge door quickly.
“Is Rachel awake, yet?” he asks, looking past our Alpha as if she might be there.
“Stay put,” Adrian tells him. “You can bother her when she’s dressed.”
Carter pulls out one of the table’s chairs and slumps into it, putting his head on his arm and grumbling under his breath about never being allowed to do anything fun.
Adrian takes two bottles of water out of the fridge and sets them on the counter.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
I’m just as keen as Carter to see our mate, but I know there’s no point crowding her until she’s feeling like herself again.
“Better,” he admits. “She asked about the gingerbread men.”
“There are a couple of containers of them over there,” I tell him, pointing them out.
“Thanks,” he says, pulling out a plate and opening a container.
There’s a couple dozen, because I went a little crazy expecting to burn at least one or two batches. In the end, they all came out pretty perfect. Adrian tips a few onto the plate, before deciding it’s better to place them on it. He piles a few more on top and closes the container.
“We’ll be down soon,” he tells us as he picks up the water and the plate and leaves the room.
“Dinner will be almost two hours,” I call after him.
“No problem,” he calls back.
I bump into Carter as I head for the fridge, and he heads for the silverware drawer.
“If dinner’s two hours away, I’m having a slice of that cake,” he warns me.
I shrug as he takes out a knife and helps himself. “I’m not making the frosting for it until later.”
“Who needs frosting?” he asks as he opens the container and cuts a hefty slice.
