23. Cassidy #2
He returns it, looking as warm as I feel. “You emotionally bonded with Cobalt, and you managed to get Nigel back into the stable.”
I laugh. “Cobalt was very well behaved, and I think the rain was what convinced Angelos to go to bed.”
“You got the lazy goat and gave me the troublemaker.” Frankie purses his lips into a pout. “Next time, I want the good one.”
“You had your choice of like… fifty goats,” I say with a laugh.
A fire crackles in the corner just past our table, and the low amber lighting makes the whole place cosy. The dark wooden beams and ancient carpet have probably survived several generations of questionable decisions.
It’s not soft in the way my nest is. But it is warm.
“What do you want to eat, then? I’ll go order for us,” Frankie says.
I look back at the menu and shrug. “Maybe a drink? A glass of red wine, please?”
He nods. “Exactly my style, little omega. Let me grab our drinks, then.”
He’s gone in a flash, manoeuvring through the crowd to join the crush at the bar.
I have no idea how ordering in a place like this works, since there is no queue, just a gaggle of people shouting out orders, but nobody seems annoyed they’re not being served.
My body feels tired now. Not the hollow, shaky, close-to-breaking tiredness I’ve carried around all week, but genuine exhaustion from spending time outside.
Frankie is back just as my mind begins to wander, sliding across my glass of wine.
“Thank you,” I say, taking a small sip.
“I ordered us something to eat, too,” he says, winking at me when I open my mouth to protest. “You don’t need to eat any, but I wanted something hot, fried, and coated in enough sugar to make my future grandkids be born with cavities.”
I grimace, half-torn between a laugh and a groan. “Which translates to?”
“Donuts, my good friend.”
I’m laughing when I smell something familiar, in a nauseating way.
Synthetic peach.
Sharp. Sugary.
Wrong.
My shoulders tighten before I can stop them, my scent glands prickling in warning, and I immediately look around for her.
Frankie’s gaze flicks up immediately. “What is it?”
Before I can answer, a familiar voice cuts across the pub, followed by a squeal that echoes through my ears.
“Oh, my days. Cassidy?”
I close my eyes briefly and give Frankie an apologetic look.
Of course.
Of course, this would happen on a night when I want to do nothing but avoid the thought of work.
Of them.
When I open them again, Gemma Powter is weaving between tables with all the confidence of someone arriving at a party she wasn’t technically invited to but has decided is better now she’s here.
Her blonde curls bounce around her shoulders, glossy and perfect despite the damp winter air outside. Her makeup is immaculate, thick lashes framing baby-blue eyes that widen with delighted recognition.
Behind her are several people I vaguely recognise. One of them is Liam, another trainee in our group at Opus. I’m not sure of the others, but I might’ve seen them in passing.
My stomach drops as she reaches our table and wraps me in some strange side hug.
“Oh, girl, it’s so great to see you out in the wild,” she says, clasping her hands together. She nudges me along, perching on the edge of my seat.
I grit my teeth, uncomfortable at our closeness, but don’t protest as I know how busy it is in here.
She mustn’t want to draw attention by standing.
It’s fine, really.
Frankie chokes on a laugh, and I shoot him a help me look.
He immediately becomes fascinated by the menu instead.
“Hi, Gemma,” I say.
I smile, aiming for bright and landing somewhere near startled.
Her gaze slides to Frankie, and something flickers in it. Her scent is so strong now, and when she grasps my hand, she practically rubs herself over my scent gland.
Gemma’s smile widens into something too polished to be accidental.
“And who is this delicious hot piece of alpha you have with you?”
Frankie leans back in his chair, dark eyes amused. “Depends who’s asking.”
Gemma laughs, and it’s such a pretty sound.
“You’re exactly how I imagined.”
I blink at the open flirtation, looking between the two in confusion as the air thickens with tension.
Frankie’s smile doesn’t move, but something about him sharpens, moss and mahogany turning darker beneath the sweetness of Gemma’s synthetic scent.
“You’ve been imagining me?” he asks darkly.
Gemma leans in closer, and I get the feeling I’m intruding. “Well, I was imagining someone like you to swoop in and take me home with them. It seems fate knew what I needed.”
I look between them, at Frankie’s slow smile, and Gemma’s open predatory grin.
There is definitely something going on here.
Oh. This is unexpected.
Gemma turns back to me before I can decide what to do with that information.
“We’re just over there. You should come sit with us,” she says, gesturing to the group including Liam.
My entire body immediately says no. Unfortunately, my mouth has been trained for twenty-one years to be polite before it checks whether survival is involved.
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude,” I say softly.
“Nonsense,” Gemma says, already waving the others over. “You’re saving us from having to listen to Theo talk about quarterly forecasting again.”
A man behind her lifts his pint, stepping closer to the table without being invited. “I was giving you newbies a word of warning.”
Frankie rises from his seat, grinning at someone behind Theo, reaching over for some kind of hug with back pats and arm punches.
“I didn’t realise you’d be out tonight, Greg,” Frankie says brightly. “Cass, this is Greg. He’s one of the trainees at my firm.”
I smile, trying not to cringe as more people come over to us. Frankie doesn’t seem to mind that we’ve been invaded, and as he dives into conversation with a few people I know now are from Visaro, Gemma chats at me about the other people.
She seems to know something about them all, and based on her descriptions, I’m a little scared to find out what she says about me when I’m not here.
“Does anyone want another round?” an unfamiliar alpha female asks, and I stay quiet as people start calling orders in.
She leans across the table, looking at me. “And you, sweetheart? Another glass of wine?”
Gemma loops her arm through mine like we’re much closer than we are, and her synthetic peach scent wraps around me, bright and cloying.
I try not to flinch.
I really do.
But it’s hard.
“No, thanks, Daisy, we’re fine,” she says, waving her off. When Daisy moves, Gemma mutters, “Honestly, alphas are far too obsessed with us omegas, aren’t they?”
I freeze, and she pats my arm.
“Not that I’m an omega, but they get confused with how much I look like one,” she continues. “What are you doing out with this Frankie, then? Is he…”
She trails off, but I shake my head, not even sure what she’s asking.
“We’re just friends,” I say softly. “We met at uni, and we’ve sort of found each other again.”
Her eyes flash with something I can’t read, but she nods.
As I sit between Frankie and Gemma, with too many faces turning towards me and too many scents crowding the air, something small and nervous begins to tighten beneath my ribs, pulling my own scent close.
Frankie is laughing. Gemma is smiling. Everyone seems happy to be here. Happy to talk, happy to laugh, happy to take up space.
At least for them.
I don’t want to be the one to ruin it, though, so I fold my hands neatly in my lap, smooth my expression into something pleasant, and tell myself this is what belonging is supposed to feel like.
That this is what it’s like to be wanted.
“Wait, aren’t you the one training directly under Harlan Mercer?” Greg asks suddenly, turning towards me.
Several heads swivel in my direction, their scents all eager and excited but blended together so much that trying to detangle them gives me a headache.
I blink, startled by the attention. I look at Frankie for help, but he’s chatting with someone else and misses it.
“Oh. Um—”
“He’s a fucking legend,” Greg continues. “You must’ve worked with him on the Linz release, right? Those visuals are gorgeous. We were talking about them in the office last week.”
Heat rushes into my cheeks, and I look down at my hands before smiling his way.
I open my mouth to let him know I did, but I was barely a footnote in the campaign.
But before I can even speak, Gemma talks first.
“Oh, yes, she is. Honestly, she was one of us at first, but now she’s up with the literal director, and working with the big wigs on all their things,” Gemma says immediately, waving a hand dismissively. “She’s still got time for us little people, though, right, Cass?”
She nudges me good naturedly. Or at least, it’s meant to be that way.
It just feels… empty.
“If we ever need help, Cassie’s the one to go to. She’s a lifesaver.”
I try to smile. “It’s nothing,” I say softly. “Anyone would help. We’re doing what we love, after all.”
A few people make approving sounds, and Gemma grins at the group.
“Yes, Cassie really loves doing Harlan’s bidding,” she says brightly.
Greg laughs. “If only I could get by like that.”
I smile automatically, but I don’t think it was the compliment it was supposed to sound like.
Sure, Gemma’s saying nice things, but it feels strange. Targeted in a way.
The discussion moves on before I manage to say another word, and I listen to the familiar gripes and moans from the group.
Someone orders another round, but I’ve barely sipped at my first glass, so I decline another again.
Frankie is deep in conversation with Greg now, the two of them laughing about their director—Mr Visionary as Greg and I call him.
Gemma is halfway through telling a story involving Liam and a printer disaster.
Nobody is excluding me.
They’re not being unkind.
And yet, every time I try to speak, even if it’s to answer a question directed my way, somebody else speaks first.
Every time I think of something to contribute, the conversation has already moved on.
The pub is too warm, much too warm. And far too loud. Every drink the group has draws them closer together, makes them touch more freely, lets their scents loosen into the air.