This is fine. This is totally normal. Lots of people stress-bake when they’re going into heat and should definitely be building a nest instead of creaming butter and sugar like their life depends on it.
The kitchen smells like vanilla and brown sugar. I’ve got cookie dough chilling in the fridge, a chocolate cake in the oven, and I’m currently working on what might be the most elaborate batch of cinnamon rolls in human history. My t-shirt is damp where I pulled it back on over my wet skin, clinging in a way that would be uncomfortable if I weren’t already overheated from pre-heat symptoms. My sleep shorts aren’t much better. They’re riding up with every movement, but I can’t be bothered to change.
I’m too busy beating the frosting like it’s a certain alpha’s smug face.
“This is relaxing,” I mutter, scraping the bowl. “This is me relaxing. Having a calm, peaceful evening before my heat.”
The bowl of frosting does not look convinced.
Neither am I, honestly.
But baking helps. It always has. When my mom died, I baked for three days straight. When I lost my first major client, I made enough cookies to feed a small army. When the Knightley Pack stole the Sterling wedding, I’d stress-baked so much that Mia had to remove the flour from my apartment.
So yeah. I’m making cinnamon rolls at seven PM while going into heat. It’s fine.
Call it a coping mechanism with frosting.
I’m slathering cream cheese frosting onto the hot rolls when I hear it.
The crunch of tires on gravel.
I freeze, spatula in mid-air.
No. No, that can’t be right. This is a private rental. No one should be?—
Car doors slam. Multiple doors.
I set down the spatula and wipe my hands on a dish towel, frowning. Maybe it’s the property manager? Except the listing specifically said they wouldn’t disturb guests unless there was an emergency.
Voices drift through the open window. Deep voices. Male voices.
Alpha voices.
Oh, hell no.
I march to the front door, prepared to politely but firmly tell whoever it is that they have the wrong house. I’m a mess. Damp clothes, flour on my face, hair escaping from my ponytail in every direction. But I don’t care. This is my week. My alpha-free, stress-free, heat week.
I yank open the door.
And come face to face with the Knightley Pack.
All four of them.
With luggage.
We stare at each other for a long, horrible moment.
Cole Knightley recovers first, his eyes widening with whatlooks like genuine surprise. Then, his mouth curves into a slow, annoyingly charming smile.
“Well,” he says, his voice warm and smooth as whiskey. “This is unexpected.”
“What are YOU doing here?” My question bursts out at the exact same time Dax Knightley growls, “What are YOU doing here?”
We glare at each other. Dax looks even more massive than usual. Six-foot-something of solid muscle, wearing a t-shirt that’s probably crying for mercy. His forest green eyes are fixed on me with the intensity of someone who’s just found an enemy combatant in his safe house.
“I’m renting this place,” I say, crossing my arms. The movement makes my damp t-shirt cling even more, and I see Cole’s eyes track the motion before Dax smacks him upside the head.
“Ow! What the hell?”
