Robert cut a hunk of Amy’s pound cake. She made a bunch of them last week and over half turned out…bad. And ugly. His hunk of cake was four inches wide. He thinks that’s a slice.
I haven’t had any of her homemade pound cakes before.
Robert was settled in a chair in the den set to read and eat. When Amy got home from shopping for all my presents on my list (I’m just sure of it), Robert left the room for a minute. When they walked into the den, the slab of cake was gone, except for crumbs. They’re blaming me for it. Could it be they saw me leap from the chair? Or, that I cannot stop licking my lips over the heavenly goodness?
Either way, it’s true. I’m a closet cake eater.
It was worth the talking to; very well worth it.
I wonder if I’ll still get a present on Christmas…