The barista from the ice rink. The one who'd been so impressed by my specialty drinks that she'd mentioned potential job opportunities at their expanding location. I'd almost forgotten about that conversation in the chaos of everything else that's been happening.
"Hello?" I answer, juggling my bag onto my shoulder while trying not to drop anything.
"Rosemarie! Hi! I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time." Sarah's voice is warm and professional, tinged with excitement. "I wanted to follow up on our conversation from the skating rink. We've been going over the proposals for the new coffee concept, and your ideas really stood out to the team."
My heart starts beating faster, and it has nothing to do with pre-heat symptoms. "Really?"
"Really. We'd love to bring you in to finalize some paperwork and discuss next steps. Any chance you could stop by tomorrow morning? I know it's Valentine's Day, but if you have time before things get too... festive."
I mentally run through my schedule. The morning is free--I'd specifically kept it open in anticipation of potential heat-related complications--but a quick meeting shouldn't interfere with anything.
"I'd be happy to," I say, trying to keep my voice professional even though I want to squeal with excitement. "I actually have the morning off from work, so that would work out perfectly."
"Wonderful! Let's say nine o'clock? I'll have all the paperwork ready. We're really excited about this, Rosemarie. Your passion for creative coffee concepts is exactly what we've been looking for."
"I'll be there. Thank you so much for this opportunity."
I hang up feeling like I could float right through the ceiling. This is it--this is the beginning of something real. My own coffee concept, backed by professionals who believe in my ideas. One step closer to the dream of eventually opening my own shop.
A pack that loves me. A career opportunity that excites me. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day and I'm going to spend it with people who actually want me there. Life is... good. Life is actually, genuinely good.
The moment I hang up, my phone buzzes again. Another incoming call. I glance at the screen and feel my stomach drop.
Mother
I groan loudly enough that Mila glances over with concern. My mother calling is never good news. It's usually demands dressed up as requests, guilt trips disguised as conversations, manipulation wrapped in the veneer of maternal concern.
My finger hovers over the decline button. I could just... not answer. Let it go to voicemail. Deal with whatever fresh hell she's concocting tomorrow, when I have more energy to fight.
But something makes me pick up anyway. Call it morbid curiosity. Call it the persistent hope that maybe, somehow, one of these conversations will actually be pleasant.
"If you're calling to coerce me into something," I say by way of greeting, not bothering with pleasantries, "it's not happening. I'm not marrying whoever Father's picked out this week, I'm not coming home for some fake family bonding session, and I'm definitely not--"
"Rosemarie." My mother's voice cuts through my preemptive defense, sharp but strangely lacking its usual edge. "You could be nicer to your elders. I did birth you, after all. Eighteen hours of labor. You had a very large head."
I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck. "My head is a perfectly normal size. And being my mother doesn't entitle you to unlimited manipulation attempts."
"I'm not--" She huffs, and I can practically hear her pressing her perfectly manicured fingers to her temple. "I'm not calling to manipulate you. I just... I wanted to talk."
"You wanted to talk," I repeat flatly, not believing it for a second. "About what? The weather? The stock market? My continuing failure to produce an advantageous marriage alliance for the family?"
"I saw a picture of you in the paper."
That makes me pause. "The paper?"
"The society section. From the Versailles Ball. And then again from some... cookie competition?" She says 'cookie competition' like it's a foreign concept she's struggling to comprehend. "You were wearing D&G."
"I was." I'm not sure where this is going, but I'm immediately defensive. "The Valentinos sent me pieces from the new collection. I wore them to support my Alphas."
"Your Alphas," she repeats quietly. "The Late Alphas. Julian North and the other two."
"Tank and Elias. Their names are Tank and Elias." My grip tightens on my phone. "And yes, they're mine. Officially, as of yesterday. If you're calling to tell me I've made a mistake or embarrassed the family or--"
"Are you genuinely happy?"
The question stops me cold. It's so unexpected, so completely unlike anything my mother has ever asked me, that for a moment I'm convinced I've misheard.
"What?"
