Page 39 of Pack Choice

“Hmmm,” Colten says, and I wonder what the hell Ford’s been telling him.

* * *

After Colten runsthrough a list of tasks for me to complete today, adding to the ten billion I didn’t complete yesterday, and we’ve looked again at his schedule, it’s almost 9 o’clock and the office is beginning to fill with my co-workers.

Luckily, I’m saved by the buzz of his cell phone. He pulls the phone from his pocket and looks at the screen.

“I need to take this,” he says, pointing me towards the door, and waiting until I’ve closed it before he answers.

I take the opportunity to rescue my Tupperware box from where Ford left it on a desk and carry it to the kitchen, Ford shuffling along behind me despite my best efforts to convince him to stay put.

“I’m only going to arrange my cupcakes on a plate,” I tell him – which sounds really dirty. What is going on with my brain? “You don’t need to stand guard.”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight today, Omega. Silver’s orders.”

“Oh god, please don’t say you told him about the incident on the sidewalk.”

“Of course I did. It’s my job to report anything unusual, and he didn’t like it any more than I did.”

“Great,” I mutter, knowing that with how paranoid my brothers’ pack is right now, they’ll probably be fitting a tracker in my arm.

I snap off the lid to the Tupperware and peer inside, relieved to find that, despite Ford tossing them to the ground, only three or four cakes are ruined.

I scour the kitchen for a plate, searching all the cupboards until only the high one above my head remains. I reach up on my tiptoes, my fingertips scraping the bottom of the door and a huge arm reaches over my head and opens it for me, his body once again ridiculously close to mine.

“What are you after?” he asks.

I can think of several things that aren’t appropriate for a work environment. “A plate.”

He hands me one down and I spend far too many minutes arranging my velvet cupcakes and salvaging the squashed frosting with a butter knife.

“How do they look?” I ask Ford when I’m done.

“Very good.”

“You want to try one – although do you mind if you have a squashed one?”

“No,” he says, “I don’t eat dessert.”

“It’s not dessert, it’s a midmorning snack.”

“It’s only 9.20.”

I wave a cupcake under his nose. “So?”

“I don’t eat cake.”

“Cookies?” He shakes his head. “Ice cream?”

“No.”

“Candy?”

“No.”

“Anything with any flavor?”

“Roast chicken.”