"I haven't got any tuna," I told him, scratching him behind the ears. His fur was cold from the outside air. "I have beans. You want some beans?"
He blinked at me, unimpressed.
"Yeah, me neither."
I scooped him up, burying my face in his neck. He smelled of wet leaves. For a second, I held onto him. Being an omega was scary anyway, but living alone was more so. It was like Cheddar knew that and came to give me comfort. But he was never overly affectionate and now like all the other times, he could only tolerate the squeeze for five seconds before hissing and then squirming to be put down.
"Fine. Go on then. Ungrateful puss. I’m going to work."
I shoved the bread back in the fridge.
After pushing my feet into my other charity bargain, a pair of leather boots that only cost me a pound because the stitching had started to come away at the sides, hence the leak, I grabbed my bag, checked that my phone had enough charge to get me through a shift, opened the flimsy door, and stepped outside.
The air in North Yorkshire hit hard. It was damp, heavy, and smelled of the River Ure. And that, depending which way the wind was blowing, wasn’t always a good thing. The air also smelled of the pine trees that lined the park. No alphas lived in this park, so luckily that was a smell I never had to worry about.
The sky was dull, but the way it was bruised in purple shades showed it was either threatening rain or snow, either way, general misery.
I trudged through the gravel paths of the park. In the summer, this place was heaving with families looking for a cheap getaway, kids screaming, barbecues smoking up the air. Now, in the dead of winter, it was a ghost town of shuttered windows and wind chimes clanging ominously in the breeze. But the cafe was open all year around for the tradespeople who worked nearby.
The cafe sat near the entrance of the park, a brick building that looked welcoming only because of the yellow light spilling from the windows. The sign above the door saidThe Riverside Caféin peeling green letters, but everyone just called it "TheGreasy Spoon."
I pushed the door open, and the wall of noise hit me. The clatter of cutlery, the hiss of the coffee machine, the roar of the industrial fryer. It smelled of fried bacon, burnt toast, and my friend, Maeve.
"You're late," she called out. “I put you something special in the fridge.”
Maeve was behind the counter, wrestling with the coffee grinder. She was a whirlwind of black hair and nervous energy, her green eyes darting to the door when anyone walked in. She never wanted to talk about why she constantly checked the exits. I’d stopped asking three months ago when she’d flinched because I dropped a tray. One day she’d trust me enough to tell me, until then…
"I’m not late," I said, grabbing an apron from the hook as I looked at the clock on the wall. “That must be fast.”
"You need to stop talking to that cat, Presley," Maeve replied, her hands on her hips.
I tied the apron strings around my waist. The fabric was stiff with starch and stains that no longer washed away. "And top of the morning to you, sunshine. You look manic and sound grumpy. Have you eaten too many muffins and are now having a sugar drop?"
"No. It's because that coffee machine's possessed. It keeps shooting steam out of the back.”
“That’s because Mrs McAdams overworks it.”
She grinned. “Please just fix the damn thing," Maeve said, banging the side of it with her hip. Her Irish accent was thicker now, chewing around the vowels as it didwhenever she got angry or scared. "And table four wants to know if the eggs are free-range."
I glanced at table four, and at the two men in high-vis jackets, looking like they could eat the table itself. "I’ll tell them the chickens had a lovely view of the A1 motorway and a pension plan."
Maeve snorted, finally getting the grinder to roar to life. "You tell them. I don’t want my next week’s meals to be liquids."
The morning rush was a blur of movement. My body went into autopilot as I pulled the orders for tables five and six.
Two full English, no black pudding. Both men wanted builder’s tea, three sugars.
Beans on toast, extra butter. Coffee, no milk, no sugar.
It was grueling, unglamorous work. My feet ached in my too-small-for-my-feet boots, and the smell of frying fat clung to my hair. But it was money. Cash in hand at the end of the week.
Around eleven, the rush died down. The tradies cleared out. We were left to clean away their crumpled napkins and sticky rings of tea from the formica tables.
I slumped into the booth at the back, sliding my boots off under the table to wiggle my toes. “I’m going to get bunions if I don't buy some new shoes soon.”
Maeve dropped a mug of tea in front of me. I took a sip. It was milky, sweet, andscalding hot.
She walked away bringing two muffins and two vanilla slices on one large plate, placed it into the middle of the table before she slid into the seat opposite.
