CHAPTER 2
“Come be the man I need.”
Henry
“For fuck's sake, Henry.”
I wish I could say this was the first time I’ve woken up with those words barked into my ear or by that exasperated huff that always follows them.
I push myself up to a sitting position, groaning loudly.
My body protesting the position loudly as I stretch my cramped muscles, forcing all of my bones to click back into place.
Yeah, okay, maybe falling asleep on my office couch for the fourth time this week was a bad idea.
It’s not smart for anybody to sleep on a hard leather couch that was built for beauty and not comfort, but even less so for a six-foot three bear shifter.
“Do you have black mold in your house or something? Why do you never just go home?” My best friend and business partner, Austin, asks, looking as perplexed by my life choices as I am.
“It wasn’t on purpose, asshole,” I grunt, my voice coming out hoarse and gravely from lack of use. Standing up, I attempt to swipe the wrinkles from my shirt, but it's a lost cause. I look like, well, like I slept on a cramped couch in my suit.
Stepping around Austin, I stand in front of a particularly shiny silver frame on the wall.
The artwork within the frame I often use as a mirror is a soulless portrait of a family of bears enjoying a meadow in spring.
The two larger bears, the parents I assume, are sitting on a picnic blanket adorned with honey pots, because…
bears. Two cubs appear to be dancing nearby, perhaps even chasing the kaleidoscope of butterflies that are fluttering toward the setting sun.
At first glance, it's a cute painting, but once you have stared at that image for an inordinate amount of time you start to see the red flags.
For one, why the fuck is a family of bears just casually chilling out in a meadow full of flowers on a fucking picnic blanket?
Are these bears shifters? If not, how the hell did they procure a picnic blanket, a wicker basket, and cutlery?
If they are shifters, why the fuck would they be using cutlery in bear form?
It makes absolutely no sense and makes me wonder about the mental state of the artist. I really need to donate it, but the frame serves a purpose, especially on mornings like this.
I pull my long, dark hair back into the bun it had shaken loose of during my impromptu nap.
I should have gone home and slept in my own bed.
Unfortunately, being a new business owner doesn’t lend to an easy life.
I have shit to do. And sure, my cabin is far too quiet, but that doesn’t mean I am trying to avoid it.
I just got busy, and it was easier to catch a quick nap on the couch than drive all the way out of town to go home and sleep, only to drive back early in the morning.
“Do you know what your problem is man? You need an omega, somebody to force your big ass to go home in the evenings. The business isn't going to fall apart if you have some semblance of a life.” Austin tells me, not for the first time. I know he’s right and fuck, I would love to find my mate.
Isn’t that what all of this is for? Buying a bar, renovating the space and fighting to get the licences we need to get the place open in time for opening weekend.
It's the reason I am so hell bent on this place becoming a success.
If and when I find my mate, I want to puff up my chest and show them how well I can provide.
I know, I know, stereotypical alpha behaviour, but is it so wrong to want that?
Surely the fates will send me an omega who will love my somewhat overbearing alpha ways.
I want to cherish my mate and give them the life they deserve.
Therefore, this bar needs to be successful, and if that means a few shitty nights sleeping on a cramped uncomfortable leather couch, then so be it. Sacrifices will be made.
When Austin and I decided to go into business together, I was working a corporate job I hated.
A literal paper pusher for a large conglomerate in Valleywood.
It paid well, but it felt like it was sucking out my soul one day at a time.
This was not the plan when I got my business degree, but I guess I wouldn’t be the first person to get trapped in the rat race.
Austin, on the other hand, was bouncing around the hospitality industry for years, unable to settle in one place for long. He was a dreamer, always striving for more and never settling for a steady paycheck like I had.
The idea was simple. Born from too many beers and long winded rants about sticking it to the man.
Buy a bar that is already established, renovate it to our taste and be our own boss.
Everything sounds easy in theory, even more achievable when ten gallons of beer deep.
So, we made the agreement that I would take care of the back office stuff, the paperwork, invoices etc etc, and Austin would run the actual bar and look after the employees.
Most of which we would scoop up from the previous establishment and who would need very little training.
We scoured the business sections of the papers, walked around the more popular streets in town, making subtle enquiries at busy establishments about the clientele and the turn over.
I swear, luck must have been on our side when we strode into a sports bar, walking distance from the local college.
Electrabea - fucking terrible name - from the outside looked like a trendy new age bar, with promises of fancy overpriced cocktails and local DJ appearances.
The inside, however, was as close to a physical representation of an acid trip as I’ve ever seen.
Leopard print furry wallpaper and a holographic glittered floor that clashed completely with the framed sports memorabilia on the walls, life-sized cardboard cutouts of famous players, and at least fifteen television screens each broadcasting a different game.
To say I was surprised when the bored bartender told us that the place was going on the market would have been a lie.
The amount of bad business decisions is almost impressive.
After meeting with the owners, trust fund babies with absolutely zero knowledge of business or hospitality, things made a lot more sense.
And since they were now “bored” owning a bar and were ready to take on their next harebrained idea, they sold us the building for an absolute steal.
Once the ink was dry on the property deed and my savings significantly lighter, things moved at the speed of light.
We stripped the place back to the bare plaster and started again.
Naming our new venture was the thing that took the longest, almost coming to blows multiple times until we finally settled on The Howling Grizzly.
Austin being a wolf shifter and me a bear, made it a little tongue-in-cheek..
“You know, you’re right. I’ll get right on that,” I say, sarcasm dripping from every word.
“I need coffee and a shower. I'll be back in a few hours.” Grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair, I move past Austin without another word.
I am painfully aware I could have gone home last night and saved myself not only this conversation but the walk of shame to the coffee shop.
“Hey, come on man, you know I appreciate everything you’re doing, this place would never get off the ground if it wasn’t for you.
Just think, it’s almost done, once this place is open it's my turn to shine.” He beams, genuinely excited, throwing his arms out each side of his body, giving me jazz hands.
His personality is suited to public facing roles, he oozes charm and confidence, much like his wolf.
He enjoys the attention and the company of others.
I, on the other hand, prefer solitude, plus I’m more likely to scare people away than welcome them in.
Slapping a large hand to Austin's shoulder, I offer him a smile, hoping to assure him we are good without words. I’m just exhausted and in dire need of coffee, he out of everybody should know how I get when I haven't had my morning coffee. I'm pretty sure he wears the scars as proof.
My favorite coffee shop just so happens to be right down the street from our tavern.
I found this little gem the week we took over the lease on the bar.
The Rainy Day Cafe. The name is cringe as all get out.
I didn’t have much hope for the coffee either, given we are right next to a college campus.
Students have little to no taste, and rarely a lot of disposable income.
Good coffee would be wasted on them. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I gave it a go, and fuck me sideways, the coffee was phenomenal.
Not only that, the treats are mouthwatering and the cafe itself smells so good.
Like freshly baked honey bread, not that I've ever been there early enough to get said honey bread.
I wonder if they take commissions for baked goods?
Stepping into the cafe, I take a deep inhale and groan, maybe today is the day.
With full-length windows making up the front of the premises, the place is flooded with light.
The walls are a pale pastel yellow with plants growing down over floating shelves, and cute little rainbow decorations hanging from the ceiling that seem to catch the light and reflect the subtle colors.
Peaceful is probably the vibe of the place, and I dig it.
Thankfully, the morning student rush is over and the queue is short, but when I reach the register and search the countertop for the honey bread that haunts my dreams, my smile falls.
Cookies, brownies, cupcakes. Freshly prepared sandwiches, croissants, donuts, and every variety of muffin one could think of. No honey bread in sight.
I look up at the cute guy behind the counter, his face plastered with a welcoming smile, like he genuinely enjoys his job here.
He’s a shifter of some kind, omega, a prey animal if I had to guess, but the scent of honey is filling my senses and making it hard for me to concentrate on anything else.
“Don’t suppose there is any honey bread in the back?
” I ask, offering my best charming smile.
Which is hard to pull off for a guy my size.
I'm not sure if the look on his face is confusion or commiseration as he shakes his head.
“No, no honey bread, handsome. Not something we sell here. Can I offer you a blueberry muffin drizzled in honey?” He suggests, his eyes traveling the length of my body, his appreciative grin making his intentions obvious.
I'm no stranger to flirting. I can see he is interested in offering me more than just a blueberry muffin. Maybe if I wasn’t so fucking exhausted, I would take his number, flirt back a little, but I'm just too tired to play the game this morning.
“No thanks gorgeous, I’ll just take a black coffee to go.” I smile, handing him a twenty and tapping the tip jar before moving down the counter to let the next customer order. If my subtle rejection stung, it doesn’t show on his face. His smile is just as bright and flirty with the next customer.
My eyes drift back to the case of goodies, a frown forming.
What did he mean it's not something they keep?
Everyday I come in here and every time the scent of honey bread damn near knocks me into the past, back to my grandma's house. If somebody in this place isn’t making honey bread, I'll eat my hat. I would know that scent anywhere.