Great. Now she knows I'm not just grumpy—I'm pathetically single and bitter about it. That's definitely the impression I wanted to make.
"I'm about to lose my job," I say flatly, abandoning the attempt at privacy. "Or should I say jobs. Plural. All of them."
The table goes quiet.
Rosemarie sets the plate in front of me with careful precision, her brow furrowed. "Why?"
I glare up at her. "It's not your business."
She nods, accepting the dismissal without offense. "Fair enough." But then she tilts her head, studying me with an intelligence that makes me uncomfortable. "Though... you look a tad too sophisticated to lose your job unless someone else is trying to set you up."
Set me up. Not far from the truth, honestly. The entire industry is setting me up to fail just because I don't have an omega on my arm.
And here she is, an omega, seeing right through me. Noticing things about me that most people miss entirely. Just like she did at the gym, when she was spiraling and I was the one who noticed.
Elias snickers. "Glad we're not the only ones who think he's a workaholic, OCD, professional maniac."
"Go touch some grass," I shoot back.
"I do. Daily." Elias grins, unrepentant. "Unlike you, who loves to be indoors and away from the sun for the sake of avoiding a tan, I actually like to get my hands dirty."
"The sun is bad for your skin. There's science behind that."
"The sun is literally essential for human survival."
"So is hydration, and yet you drink Monster energy drinks like they're water."
I can see Rosemarie watching our exchange with barely concealed amusement, and something about that makes me both annoyed and pleased. Annoyed because I'm being made fun of. Pleased because she's smiling, and it transforms her entire face into something radiant.
"Boys." Tank's voice cuts through our argument like a knife through butter. "Focus." He turns those dark eyes on me—the ones that always make me feel like he's seeing straight through whatever bullshit I'm trying to hide. "Why would your jobs—since you clearly do multiple talent gigs—be at risk?"
I stare down at the plate in front of me. The pancakes are golden brown, perfectly fluffy, exactly the kind of comfort food I need but can't seem to accept. The bacon is crispy without being burnt. The eggs are scrambled to perfection, and there's a small pile of fresh fruit arranged artfully on the side.
It looks amazing. It smells amazing. And I can't bring myself to eat any of it because my stomach is too knotted with anxiety to accept food.
I stab at the pancakes with my fork instead, watching the tines pierce the fluffy surface without actually bringing anything to my mouth.
"No Omega," I mutter. "No more gigs."
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
No Omega, no more gigs. Five words that summarize everything wrong with this industry. Everything wrong with a society that thinks the only way an Alpha can prove he's stable is by having someone on his arm.
Tank's expression doesn't change—it rarely does—but I can see the tension that enters his shoulders. Elias's grin fades, replaced by something serious. Even Sasha, who's been quietly watching from his spot near the refrigerator, seems to sense theshift in mood. He lets out a soft whine and rests his massive head on his paws.
Rosemarie returns from the kitchen with a mug in her hands. She sets it in front of me, and I look down at?—
"I asked for black."
She nods, completely unbothered by my irritation. "You did. But if you've had a long night—or morning, by the look of it—having straight black coffee is going to wire you up even more. This is more soothing. If you need a nap later, it'll actually help you sleep instead of keeping you awake staring at the ceiling and spiraling."
Spiraling. She used that word deliberately. She remembers the gym. She remembers that I helped her when she was spiraling.
I stare at the drink in front of me. It's clearly some kind of latte or cappuccino—beautifully made, with foam art on top that looks like a small flower. Delicate petals rendered in milk foam, so precise it almost seems a shame to disturb it. Completely not what I asked for.
"It's a lavender honey oat milk latte," she explains, apparently taking my silence as an invitation to continue. "The lavender promotes relaxation without being sedating. The honey adds a natural sweetness that won't spike your blood sugar. The oat milk is easier on the stomach than dairy, especially if you haven't eaten properly." She pauses. "Which, based on how loudly your stomach was growling, I'm guessing you haven't."
Is she a barista? A nutritionist? A witch who can read minds through coffee orders?
