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Chapter twenty-two

Mitch

Morning light breaks through the curtains, and I pull the covers up over my head to hide. It’s too early. It’s too cold. I’m too sore.

I don’t know where Roan gets her energy, but she isn't sharing. We’ve spent all of October and the first two weeks of November building and moving furniture around at the Arts Centre.

It took one minor trip to the emergency room after she sprained her wrist for Clay to put a full stop on her insistence she can do it all herself.

Obviously, there was a bit of argument about that, but Clay was the voice of reason.

A part of being independent is knowing when to lean on your supports and your community.

It’s something we are still working on with her.

We’re deep in the offseason until after the holidays, so that means we’re closing up the café at noon every day and going to work at the centre with Roan.

I’m not meant for physical labour. I’m an old, old wooden ship. I deserve to be polished off regularly and paraded around while we talk about my former glory as a seafaring vessel. Now I’m being taken down to the docks and forced to haul two-by-fours up stairs.

My back twinges just thinking about having to carry the giant armchairs Barnaby is donating up to the first floor. Why does the first floor have to be where people lounge? Why can’t they do that on the ground floor?

Clay hasn’t complained once about the heavy lifting.

The fact that he passes out the moment his head hits the pillow says it all, though.

He’s feeling as run down as I am. We’ve taken to having lunch in the café just so we can all eat one meal together before we are running off to do our own things, or before we fall asleep at seven in the evening like some kind of geriatric wizards.

It will all be over in a couple of weeks, with the Cove Arts Centre’s official opening and show.

We are proud of our Omega and all the work she’s putting in to make this special for the people in town.

Every morning, she runs off to interview someone else and spend time with them while they work.

She wants to fill the first floor with portraits of the unsung heroes in our community.

Barnaby, Andri, Connie, and Naia have offered to share art from their collections and vintage pieces about the town to display on the ground floor.

The mayor’s office has also donated a few older documents about the town.

Roan’s hope is that it draws tourists in for the history, and then she can lure them upstairs with modern art and really push people to learn about Hallow’s Cove, rather than just remember we exist for a week every summer.

It feels like things are finally settling into place. Our pack is complete and we are growing. I see it in all of us, and I couldn’t be more proud of our Omega for joining and accepting us.

Clearly, I am more awake than I want to be. Maybe if I get up now, I can make Roan a tea before she runs off. Could you put foamed milk in tea? Did that add anything fun to it? I feel like I’m being denied my chance to show off every day when all she wants with her drink of choice is cold milk.

A splash of ice cold milk.

There is nothing fun about that. No foam art. No fun flavours meddling together with freshly ground coffee. It’s just leaves with hot water.

Maybe that’s where she gets the energy?

I shove my feet into my slippers and look at the alarm clock on Clay’s side of the bed.

9:23

Nine?

Shit. Fuck. Why would they let me sleep? Clay can’t work the espresso machine. He can just barely operate the drip filters. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My foot slams into Roan’s suitcase and I double over.

She doesn’t have a lot of stuff. Her whole life was packed up into these two suitcases, but shit.

Our apartment isn’t really big enough for the three of us.

Maybe once the centre opens, we can hunt for a bigger place, somewhere that suits all of us.

I pull a sweater over my head while trying to write that thought on a Post-It note before I run down the front stairs to the shop.

“Welcome,” Roan says with a giggle from behind the counter. She’s wearing a tiny little apron cinched at her waist and one of my old t-shirts that’s so tight I can see the outline of her bra.

Damn it. She has no right to be so damn sexy when I’m late.

I point my finger right at her as I step up to the counter. “Darlin’, you got a lotta nerve stealing my apron.”

“We don’t serve that here.” She smiles. “Just lattes and looks.”

“We don’t recommend the lattes,” Jeremy says from where he’s sitting with someone new.

I do a double-take at the new person in town, but I don’t get a chance to ask their name before Roan pesters me for my coffee order.

“I’ll make it,” I say rounding the corner. “You watch, I’m not risking my first cup of the day.”

“So what’s your drink?” she asks, moving to sit on my stool.

“It’s a double macchiato with whipped cream.”

“Does the whipped cream make it more fun?”

“I like it better than adding sugar.” I smile, pushing the portafilter under the coffee grinder until I get the weight I’m looking for with this blend.

Roan sits quietly while I make my coffee until I’m knocking the puck out. She hops off the stool and goes for the small fridge with the glass front under the counter. I’m not the least bit ashamed to say I stare at her ass when she’s bent over.

She gives the whipped cream canister to me, but I slide my cup to her.

“You’re the one wearing the apron.”

There’s a gleam in her eyes when she gives the can a shake and turns it upside down over my drink.

Clay said it was a silly investment to get the fancy professional thing when the store-bought cans worked just as well.

But our Omega looks downright fucking evil when she pulls the trigger and cream explodes everywhere.

It covers both of us in cream and hot coffee. Roan squeals as she drops the canister onto the floor, and more cream shoots up at her face. The fluffy white cream arcs with precision up in the air and lands right on her cheek and slides down to her chest.

Clay throws the door to the kitchen up as I’m curled over cackling. He huffs, looking from me to her, and then at whipped cream everywhere.

“You good, sugar?” he asks.

Roan’s bottom lip pops out when she sees the true extent of the mess. And yeah, it makes me want to pout, too. This is a disaster.

“I just wanted to do something nice,” she groans.

“And you are,” Clay answers, grabbing a few washcloths from under the sink. “You’re helping him clean up.”

“Last time I use that busted can,” she grumbles in a grouchy tone that sounds like Clay.

I have to swallow my laughter as we get to cleaning up. It doesn’t take long, but I write myself a Post-It note to do a deeper clean this afternoon. The last thing we want is a café that smells like turned milk.

While Roan does a final mop of the floor, we get suddenly slammed with a group of bird-watching tourists.

I don’t know what’s going on, but not only do I get bogged down in making lattes on lattes, Roan steps in to take orders and payment as well.

The whole front of the shop is suddenly bursting with people and the echoes of chatter.

When was the last time it was this busy?

What happened to the offseason? I can smell the dry cream on my fur, and all I want to do is crawl upstairs and shower.

My feet ache from wearing my slippers all morning.

We can’t even close at noon like we planned.

It's four in the afternoon by the time we’ve got the crowd cleared out and the café cleaned to a respectable standard.

“Omega,” I whine, draping myself over her back. “Carry me, I’m dead.”

“If you’re dead, you don't get the rest of your surprise,” she laughs. “It’ll just be me and Clay having all the fun.”

I groan. “You know I can’t be left out.”

“Then we’ve got to liven up,” she says with a pat to my hand on her stomach. “Help me grab something from across the street, and then we can have shower sex.”

My ears perk up at that, and I suddenly feel rejuvenated. I grab Roan by the hand to get us out of here, not giving a single fuck about ruining my slippers. They’re probably already ruined. I’ll buy a new pair if it means getting my Omega all wet and slick after our day together.

Roan unlocks the front of the gallery and ushers me in quickly. There are stacks of covered frames and the smell of fresh paint is finally fading away. There is still a lingering smell of sawdust from the work we’ve been doing, but it’s not chemically offensive like the paint.

My stomach grumbles when I catch a whiff of something sweet.

“Did you take a break to eat?” I ask, looking down at my mate. I can’t remember if I told her to stop and eat during the day. I saw plenty of pastries and cakes going from the cabinets this morning, but I don’t think I saw her take a single bite of anything.

“I’m fine,” she says, shoving me towards the stairs. “Let’s go.”

“Don’t make me tell Clay you didn’t eat,” I threaten.

“He’s not going to care,” she huffs.

“Oh, you wanna bet?”

We round the stairs on the first floor, and I get a little starstruck looking at the finished painting of my fellow townies.

My mate painted these. She’s done all this work in such a short period of time, but I can only imagine the lasting effect it’s going to have.

The paintings are all different, beautiful and special to each person.

“Mitch!” she stomps her foot.

“Geez, so pushy.” I smirk, looking from a painting of Gabe back to my Omega. “Desperate for me already, darlin’?”

Her cheeks tint that adorable pink shade that makes my dick hard. It doesn’t stop her from grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the ever-growing sweet smell coming from the loft. Did she get some kind of incense or something?

“I asked Clay, and he said you wouldn’t mind.” Roan’s voice takes on a nervous edge as she opens the door to her space.

It’s not as blindingly bright as it used to be. I cock my head to the side as I follow her into the room. There are tall wardrobes in the corner, and she’s rearranged the furniture and…

Is that our cuck chair?

It’s never been used for that, but I heard someone talking about the concept years ago and it was too funny to ignore. Clay mostly uses that chair to put his socks on in the morning, and I always end up throwing my pajama pants on it.

Now though, it’s angled next to Roan’s futon and our TV is set up opposite it.

Roan drags me around, grabbing my hand and taking me around the corner to reveal that our dining table is here now.

There is a far corner set up for her art supplies and a desk has been set up, too, so she has a proper space for her laptop.

The sweet smell is cupcakes.

On our bed.

With Clay. Who is naked.

The golden glow of the setting sun lights him like a hedonistic god, and I never want this image to leave my brain. It’s so perfect, the way the light makes his grey fur glow. My dick hardens painfully quickly just looking at him.

“Fuck me,” Roan breathes. “This is extra.”

“You can call me the king of surprises.” Clay grins, hard cock laying on his thigh while he licks frosting off a tiny cake.

I look from my Alpha to our mate, clutching my imaginary pearls.

Her lips are parted as she stares at him.

Never in his life has Clay been one for surprises.

If anything, I am the king of surprises.

He’s stealing my thunder and honestly, I could weep tears of joy right now.

He sounds so fucking content with himself.

“There is a warm towel in the microwave for you to wipe off with,” he notes casually. “But we’re going to get very, very messy.”