Pack Baby for the Billionaires (Pack Baby #1)

Chapter 1

Presley

My pansies in the window box were fighting a losing battle. Their heads were bowed, petals crisp with frost.

"Hang in there," I told them as I made my nest look as pretty as I could with the only things I brought from my bed at home. "We're all struggling."

We were. The ice on the inside of the caravan window was thicker than the frost on the grass outside, and my wallet was thinner than paper.

I scraped a fingernail against the pane, and watched the white shavings curl and fall onto the damp sill.

I exhaled and watched as my breath plumed in the air, a little gray ghost that vanished as quickly as my bank balance.

My phone buzzed. Maeve's name flashed on the screen.

"Tell me something good," I said as I picked up a furry cushion from the floor and placed it at the head of my nest.

"The raspberry and chocolate muffins and the vanilla slices have just arrived. Even better. Dave is in Ripon all day." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "It would be a tragedy to not sample the goods."

"You're a terrible influence."

"And I can hear you salivating from here."

I grinned, already pulling on my coat. "Fine. But if we get caught, I'm telling him you forced me."

"Please. Nobody needs to force me to put cream filling into my mouth."

I snorted. "You know how that sounds, don’t you?"

"I wish. Food is the only reliable thing in my life," she shot back. "It doesn't lie, the smell is real and it always delivers exactly what it promises. Well most of the time."

There was something hard underneath her words, but before I could ask, she added, "Unlike your silicone boyfriend who needs charging every three days."

"Oh my god, is anyone near you right now?"

"Just Mrs McAdams from caravan eight. She’s taking advantage of the free coffee top ups as usual. Anyway, you’re two minutes late for work, so get your arse out of that icebox you call home before I eat your sample."

I hung up on her laughter, then pulled my relic of a cardigan tighter.

It was far too big but I found it in a charity shop bin in Ripon, it only cost me fifty pence.

Probably because it had holes near the cuffs where my thumbs poked through, but I didn’t care.

It was wool, and wool warmed me better than polyester.

And it smelled nice, even if it was just cheap lavender detergent.

"Right then," I said to the caravan that was all I owned in the world. The metal box was the sum total of the Prince family estate. Mum and Dad had bought it as a holiday getaway before the sickness took them both within a year of each other. And now I owned the static home, which unfortunately sat on a plot of land that I had to pay ground rent on. The landlord didn’t care about my lack of funds or the death of my parents.

It was when I moved into the caravan that I had a crushing realization that the world didn't stop spinning just because your heart had been ripped out.

I wrapped my arms around myself as I moved from my cozy nest to the kitchenette, which took all of two steps.

The lino floor was so cold it could burn the soles of my feet, which meant I permanently wore thick socks.

I checked the electric meter key on the counter.

I had three pounds left. If I didn't turn on the heating, I could make it last until Friday when I got paid my weekly pittance from the cafe.

I had no choice but to pick the cold, just in case snow decided to fall and I really needed to warm up.

I thought of the vanilla slice as I stared at the tin of beans sitting on the counter next to a half-loaf of bread that was starting to stiffen at the crusts. That was the normal breakfast of a twenty-three-year-old omega who was trying to save enough money to buy winter boots that didn't leak.

A thud against the door made me jump.

I cracked it open, and a blur of orange fur pushed past my ankles.

"Morning to you too, Mr. Cheddar," I muttered.

The neighbor’s ginger tom didn't belong to me technically. He belonged to Mr. Jacob from two caravans down, an elderly man who smelled of pipe tobacco, and constantly moaned about his ex-wives and how they fleeced him for all he had.

Cheddar preferred my poverty to Mr. Jacob’s sour moods.

He hopped onto the scratched laminate table and meowed in his usual demanding, gravelly sound.

"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 said The Riverside Café in peeling green letters, but everyone just called it "The Greasy 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 did whenever 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, and scalding 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.

“Oh my God. I’m going to climax.”

Maeve snorted. “I know. Who knew bakery goods were the equivalent of a scent match? I’ve had slick running down my thighs since they were delivered.”

“Maeve!”

“What! I’m just saying.”

“Have you ever met a scent match?”

She looked down at the plate, picked up a muffin and took a bite.

“I haven’t,” I continued, wishing she would open up to me.

“Me neither. I think alphas smell nice, but none have made me…” She stopped talking as she glanced out of the window and watched the cars that rolled into the park entrance.

“Want to drop your knickers.”

She laughed as I remembered what she told me not too long ago.

“Are you okay?” She looked tired. More than normal, and there were purple smudges under her eyes that even her concealer couldn't hide.

“Yeah.” It was a lie. One day, she’d be ready to talk.

"Then stop it," I said, blowing on my tea. "Nobody's coming."

"I can’t help it, it’s a habit," she murmured, turning her attention to me.

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a folded piece of newspaper. It looked like she’d been carrying it around for days; the edges were soft and fuzzy. "Read this."

"I don't read the news, Maeve. It's depressing. War, famine, the price of butter going up again, and that’s just the UK." I picked up my cup of tea and took a sip.

She grinned. "Just read it." She slid it across the sticky table.

It was a clipping from one of the newspapers that customers always left behind in the posh coffee shops in Harrogate. The kind that cost three quid and stained your fingers with ink.

I picked it up with my free hand, and choked on my tea as I read the headline.

OMEGA SURROGATE WANTED.

Private Clients. High-profile Pack. Based in Kensington. Excellent remuneration to be discussed at the interview. Candidates must be of Omega designation, healthy, and discreet. NDA must be signed. Accommodation provided. Possibility of subsequent contracts.