“Hey, Skye?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“A customer wants to order a custom Valentine’s Day box.”
I grimace as I take the pencil out of my mouth. “Just pick whatever flavors they want,” I say, staring at the inventory sheet in front of me, the numbers suddenly meaningless.
How many pounds of almond flour do we need? Even though I just counted, the number disappears from my brain.
“But they want us to pick,” Devyn says. “Do we do that?”
There’s no reason for the flare of anger in my chest, and Devyn does not deserve any of the wrath that threatens to spew from my mouth. “Sure. Just pick whatever flavors you think would work,” I say carefully, twirling the pencil in my fingers.
I keep my gaze on the inventory sheet, hoping the conversation is over.
But it’s not.
“I’ve never done it before,” Devyn says in a sickeningly sweet voice. “What if I mess it up?”
Don’t lose it, Skye. It’s just a holiday.
I turn to our newest hire and meet her youthful face. “You won’t,” I say gently. “What flavor macarons would you put into a Valentine’s Day box?”
The petite Omega chews her lip and glances towards the front of the store. “Probably raspberry, chocolate, and maybe rose? That makes sense, right? That’s what I would want.”
“That’s perfect,” a voice pipes up behind Devyn, and April comes into view, casting me a knowing look as she places a box of paper cups on a shelf. “Remember, twelve in a box, Devyn. And use the pink ribbon, not silver.”
Devyn leaves the supply room and I turn my attention back to the inventory list, dreading the inevitable chastising from my best friend.
“You don’t have to sound like someone is murdering your cat when you talk to her, Skye,” April says, her dark brown eyes narrowed.
“What are you talking about?” I ask innocently, recounting the bags of flour.
“It’s Valentine’s Day, not a funeral,” she replies. “It’s unavoidable, especially in our business.”
“I know that,” I counter. “It will be great for sales.”
April sighs loudly and I glance up from my inventory sheet to meet her empathetic expression.
I’d rather see her annoyed with me. Anything other than that look.
“It can’t be worse than last year,” she assures me softly. “Things can only get better from here.”
“I know that,” I snap, not quick enough to rein my emotion in. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I cringe internally. I sound like a bitch. Just because Valentine’s Day is ruined for me doesn’t mean I need to act like a menace to everyone else.
Especially not to my best friend, who doesn’t deserve one ounce of my wrath.
It’s not like she has a pack, either. Or even just one Alpha.
April’s eyes narrow into slits. “It’s all over your face,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Even if you don’t want to talk about it, your expression speaks volumes.”
“Yeah, well—”
“I’m going to say this as your friend, and because I love you,” she continues, “but you have to keep it together at work. You have to. Devyn is sensitive, and she picks up on your moods. And so will customers.”
Ugh. April’s right. She’s always right.
I sigh and swallow, embarrassed at the lump that swells in my throat.
I had too much espresso today, and my moods are all over the place.
“Yeah, I know,” I grumble, biting my lip. “Sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.” Her expression softens and she uncrosses her arms, leaning against the shelf with a sigh. “Just keep it together for now, and we can both cry tonight while stuffing our faces.”
I smirk. “I like that idea.”
And it can’t be any worse than last year.
It’s almost closing time at April’s Cafe, and the Alpha at the register is incredibly indecisive.
Less than a month until it’s all over, I think to myself.
“She loves your macarons,” he continues, his dark eyes staring at the glass display of our treats. “I’m just not sure which ones.”
I want to slam my head on the counter until I knock myself out.
How does he not know what flavors his own mate likes?
Careful, Skye. You’re being bitter.
At least this Omega has an Alpha that’s making an effort for her at all.
Jason never would have.
So, I swallow down my impatience and do my best.
“Well, the vanilla ones are always popular. And the raspberry lemon is a February exclusive,” I offer. “But she’s not here, so I don’t want to make too many suggestions. I would probably go with safe choices.”
“Hmm.” That seems to confuse him more, and I shift my balance, trying to not appear bored.
Just pick a flavor!
Any of our macarons would be the right choice. We’ve rarely had complaints, except for the spicy black licorice.
But that only lasted for a day, and neither April nor I ever brought it up again afterwards.
“Skye, I’ll see you later,” April calls out as she walks through the front door, leaving me with Mr. Indecisive and Devyn, who is busy cleaning out espresso machines.
“Alright, text me,” I say before turning my gaze back to the Alpha.
His scent is pleasant, with just the slightest hint of clove and cedar, so faint it could be confused with a cologne. It’s pleasant and welcoming, but it stirs nothing within me.
My inner Omega has been silent these past months. I’ve stuffed her down into the darkest parts of my heart, unable or unwilling to let her resurrect.
The Alpha in front of me has barely any impact on my senses.
He’s handsome enough, and he’s polite, so I stay as patient as I can with him. His intentions are good, after all.
Finally, ten minutes after Devyn locks the door, he purchases a twelve-pack of vanilla, espresso, and lemon raspberry. I package them carefully and tie the box with a silver ribbon. He’s pleased, and Devyn and I both wish him a good night as we unlock the door to let him out.
“Oh my God, he was so cute,” Devyn says as I assist with the dish washing. I can’t help but crack a smile at her enthusiasm. “That shirt fit his arms perfectly, Skye. Ugh!”
“Yeah? I didn’t notice,” I say, scrubbing at a teacup. “He was cute enough, I guess. He’s also mated.”
“I can’t wait until I have a pack,” Devyn babbles on, ignoring me. “I’m going to have like ten Alphas.”
I snort, amused at her bubbliness. There’s a reason April hired her; she’s great with customers and personable. “You’re like, sixteen. You have plenty of time for that,” I chuckle, wiping my hands with a towel.
“I’m nineteen!” she says, incensed. “My clock is ticking.”
I audibly groan. “Oh, dear God. If your clock is ticking, mine has exploded and evaporated into thin air.” I grab a towel and work on drying the cutlery, trying not to let bitterness seep into my tone. She’s ten years my junior, and I’ve never felt so old or jaded as I stand next to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Omega. Her natural scent blends in perfectly with the café; she’s honey with the slightest hint of cinnamon.
She really was the perfect hire. Props to April.
“Are you dating anyone?”
It’s an innocent question and I should have expected it. Still, I can’t help but flinch as I answer her.
“Nah. Not at the moment,” I mutter.
Devyn scoffs. “That’s ridiculous. Alphas come in all the time and drool over you and April! You could make a super pack!”
I stare at her dumbfounded until she laughs, causing her eyes to crinkle in the corners. “I’m just joking.”
She must see something on my face, because her smile quickly falls. “Sorry if I’m being too nosy. People tell me I talk a lot and ask too many questions,” she says with a hint of insecurity in her tone.
I shake my head. She’s adorable and it’s difficult to stay in a shitty mood when she flits around spreading positivity everywhere.
“You don’t. You’re friendly, and it’s a great quality,” I say gently. “You’re naturally energetic. But sometimes, I’m not going to meet that positivity as much as April or the others might, okay? Don’t take it personal.”
She nods. “I won’t. But if you ever want to talk about Alpha stuff, I’m all ears.”
I huff. If she knew my “Alpha stuff” she would run screaming.
But I nod and give her the best smile I can.
“Sounds good. Let me get the closing checklist done, and we can head out of here.”
April doesn’t text me after work.
It’s fine, really. Part of me is relieved that I can just crawl under the covers of my bed and pass out early, but it’s a bit out of character for her.
The next morning, I arrive at the café and prep the macarons. It’s my week to come in early, and I pass the time listening to self-improvement podcasts as I separate egg whites and sift almond flour over and over.
Our macarons are incredible, but they’re time consuming to make. But ever since April’s mother taught me how to make them years ago, I’ve worked at the café on and off through college, mastering my craft.
After college, the café became a more permanent job. Instead of just a barista or cashier, I practically run the entire business with April, which is perfect for me.
With a busy schedule and constant tasks, running the café keeps me organized and sane.
If I stay idle too long, I can drown in my thoughts, and the last thing anyone needs is a twenty-nine-year-old Omega weeping on the ground.
You’re still healing. It’s okay to cry.
You need to be nicer to yourself.
The podcast blares in my headphones and I repeat mantras over and over, desperate to find some truth in them.
I make batch after batch of macarons, focusing on our February specials.
Ideas for different flavor combinations swirl in my head, and after the main batches are prepared, I play around with different ingredients to see what to add to the next month’s menu.
Rose and black tea? I’ll have April try it; if she spits it out, it’s a no.
We can’t have another repeat of spicy black licorice.
Three hours later, my apron is coated in almond flour and my fingers are stained with food coloring.
I’m not the tidiest baker, but the cookies always come out delicious.
By the time the café opens, I’m in the back, fixing my hair and switching out my apron. Devyn and Anna are already here, but April isn’t.
That’s weird. April is punctual to a fault.
“Hey. Have you heard from April?” I ask Devyn as she hurries to the back for a bag of ground coffee beans.
“No. But we’re getting busy,” she says.
I frown. I can’t remember the last time April was late, but I push the thought to the side as I tie my apron tight and head back to the front.
I groan. The line is already out the door, and with one head short, this isn’t going to be fun.
By the second hour, we’re sold out of macarons for the day. Usually, April and I would celebrate the successful sales day, but she still isn’t here.
What the hell.
When the crowd dies down, I call her, and I’m sent straight to voicemail.
Devyn sees my face as I place my phone back in my pocket. “What’s up?” she asks. “Is April alright?”
I shake my head, frowning. “Got her voicemail.”
But before I can focus on that, another round of people comes in, and I’m serving up cappuccinos and drip coffees with a fake smile on my face.
Am I overreacting?
Maybe her phone died, or she slept in.
But April doesn’t sleep in.
A nasty feeling churns in my gut, and I text and call her three more times throughout the day.
April was supposed to close today, along with Luke and Jamie.
I sure as hell won’t leave them to close the store alone, especially with Valentine’s Day around the corner.
“I can stay longer, too,” Devyn pipes up as I anxiously gulp my iced coffee in the back room. “You can go check on her and see if she’s alright.”
My hand shakes as I grip the plastic cup tightly. “If you do that, you’ll need to take an extra lunch break,” I remind her. “I don’t want to have you stay that long.”
“I don’t mind!” Devyn says, her blue eyes wide as saucers. “I’m worried about her, too, Skye. Go see if she’s alright, please.”
I hesitate. There’s always supposed to be a manager here, whether it’s me, April, or even her mother, on occasion.
“Okay. But call me if anything happens,” I order, “and I’ll come back here.”
She stands on her tiptoes and salutes me, and I chuckle for the first time all day. “Got it, boss,” she says.
But the nasty feeling grows in my gut as speed to April’s house.
It usually takes ten minutes to get there from the cafe.
It takes me five.
Her car is missing from her driveway.
My heart threatens to burst out of my chest as I knock on her door, banging louder than necessary.
“April?” I ring the doorbell over and over, jamming the button with my pointer finger.
If she’s in there, she’s going to be pissed, but at least I won’t have to worry anymore.
“APRIL? HEY!”
I try to peek through the tiny window next to her door, but the curtain obscures most of my vision. I crouch down and see the tiny sliver of her front table with the vase of flowers and her burgundy purse next to it.
Her purse is on the front table, but her car isn’t in the driveway.
What the hell?
The nasty feeling in my stomach grows, but I tell myself it’s from the ridiculous amount of coffee I’ve consumed today.
I bang on the door again for good measure, but there’s still no response.
“Shit,” I hiss, pulling out my cell phone. I call April’s mother, Tammy.
“Hi, sweetie,” Tammy answers, her voice gentle. “How are you doing?”
“Hey, is April with you?” I ask, pacing her driveway. “She didn’t show up today.”
Please say yes please say yes—
“No, she’s not,” Tammy replies, and my stomach flips. “Did you go to her house?”
I swallow, not wanting to give her the news. “Yes. That’s where I’m at right now. Her car isn’t here.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. “Huh. Well, maybe—”
“Her purse is on the front table, Tammy. I can see it through the window,” I breathe, panicked. “And her car’s gone.”
“Okay, calm down, Skylar,” Tammy says. “It’s going to be fine. Have you called her already?”
“Her phone goes straight to voicemail,” I mutter. I kick a pebble down her driveway, the coffee burning nervous energy through me as I struggle to not flip out.
This isn’t like April. She would never not show up to work or leave her house without her purse.
Tammy sighs. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll be there soon with the spare key. If she’s not home, we will take the next steps. I’m sure she’s fine, Skylar.”
I realize the absurdity of the situation. Tammy shouldn’t be comforting me about this. It’s her daughter.
April’s just my best friend.
But when Tammy shows up, spare key in hand, I dig my nails so hard into my palms they bleed.
April isn’t here, and the only thing missing from her purse is her keys.
Her Omega scent is faded; the hints of vanilla and clove are stale and barely waft through the house anymore.
Tammy meets my gaze and narrows her eyes.
“Call the police,” she says. “I’m not taking any chances.”
I swallow and dial 911.
