Sweet Like Sugar

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To my husband, who is my biggest fan

I was thinking about getting this published at some point not sure though, so I thought I might publish a few chapters and see how things go. So don't hold back please read and give me your criticism both good and bad! I might even change some things. Who knows! ꒒ ০ ⌵ ୧ ♡ Missy

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I always thought winter in Roswell made this little mountain town feel cozy—the perfect tourist trap for those looking for the perfect get away. I brush the falling snow off my resume folder with numb fingers and tuck it under my arm protectively. Hopefully by the end of the day I’ll have a job to help pay my college tuition and more importantly, my rent; maybe I wont be forced to live off ramen until I’m old and gray. My best friend since Elementary school, Eddie, helped me get an interview at a fairly popular bakery and café called Amore Cakes. It’s not a name I’d have chosen myself, but to each their own. I stare at the row of shops and cross-refer them with the address Eddie texted me last night.

Even after almost a year in this town, I still get lost among the familiar streets, needing directions to places I’ve visited before. It’s certainly a special talent of mine—walk five blocks in any direction and suddenly find myself completely turned around.

A gust of wind barreled down the sidewalk, whipping snow in tight angry spirals and rattling the cheap buttons on my thin coat. “Winter definitely came hard this year!” crowed a couple shuffling past, arms locked, their coats so big and fluffy they looked ready to traverse the Arctic tundra. Their breath steamed out together in tangled halos. The woman’s scarf was longer than my resume. For a second, I envied how snug they looked—then remembered Eddie’s voice last night, mock-solemn: “Dress to impress, Hen. No one hires someone who looks like they just tumbled out of hibernation.”

My grey slacks had seemed professional in front of the mirror at home—here, they felt like white flags of surrender to frostbite. My toes prickled inside plain sneakers the only good shoes I own; numbness crept up my shins. A dad wrangling two pink-cheeked toddlers overtook me on the walk. The smaller kid pointed at my bare ankles with scandalized delight; his blue mittened fist waved wildly as if warning me of imminent disaster. Just ahead, a group of high schoolers clustered in a doorway, sharing a hot chocolate and laughing at something only seventeen-year-olds could find funny. I tugged my jacket tighter and tried to look like someone who belonged anywhere.

Head down, I counted shop numbers against Eddie’s excited text from last night—a string of exclamation marks trailing after a time of the meeting. When I looked up again, a wash of golden light spilled across the sidewalk: there it was, sitting snug between an insurance agency and an antiques place that never seemed open.

A relieved sigh escapes when I realize it’s not far from my bus stop. I pause in front of the red-brick café to steady my nerves. The glowing red sign mixed with warm yellow light spilling from two big windows is a welcome contrast to the gloomy gray sky. A large “Now Hiring—Apply Inside” sign hangs in the window. A bell rings as the door opens, and a flash of red hair catches my eye. “Hen! You made it!” Edmundo—Eddie—grins at me. He brushes flour off his black apron, flashing a smile that doesn’t match his nose ring and lip piercings. His usual brown hair is dyed bright red.

I cringed at that nickname he gave me when we were 11. “Yeah, well, I need to pay rent and tuition.” I laugh awkwardly, though inside I’m panicking over the twenty dollars left in my wallet—my last savings from my previous job. My parents brag about how successful I am, so I can’t ask them for help... not yet.

Eddie heaves a dramatic sigh and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Good—’cause we need people. Our boss scares everyone away.” My stomach knots at the pressure on my shoulders. Eddie pulls back and looks me in the eye, his face suddenly serious. “Before I forget... I might’ve told the big boss you were a beta...” He trails off. He folds his arms. I’m a pure-blood omega—both my parents are omegas—so my heart pounds.

“Why would Eddie lie to the owner about me being an Omega?” The question rings in my head before I can ask it aloud. I only manage a skeptical eyebrow, but Eddie reads it all the same. He steps back, hands held up, palms toward me like he’s surrendering. “Listen,” he says, voice low, “Espen—he’s the alpha who runs this place—isn’t exactly into the whole Omega thing. Like, at all. I didn’t want you to get shut down before you even had a chance, so… I maybe didn’t mention that part.” He tries for a sheepish grin, but it lands somewhere between embarrassed and desperate.

I feel the ice of anxiety splinter and recombine, this time barbed with a raw, humming anger. “Not fond of omegas, huh?” I repeat in a flat tone. My mind flashes through a sequence of recent headlines: “OMEGA MISSING AFTER LATE SHIFT,” “UNCLAIMED OMEGA FOUND IN RIVER,” “TRIAL SET FOR ALPHA IN TRAFFICKING RING.” They never use names. You go missing, you become a statistic. I stare at Eddie, half-expecting him to laugh it off. He doesn’t.

“I’m serious,” he says, voice a notch higher, as if that makes the lie gentler. “But I wouldn’t throw you to the wolves. You’ll be fine. I swear.” He reaches for my shoulder, but I sidestep and yelp, “Fine? You want me to risk getting kidnapped for a minimum wage job?” My voice echoes of the brick wall, louder than I mean it to be. I look towards where the bus had just dropped me off, wishing it would come back.

Eddie sighs, eyes glassy with guilt. “It’s not like that. He’s not a creep. He’s just old school. And I promised your parents I’d look out for you. After what happened at your last job, I—” Here, his voice softens, and for a second I see the friend who used to make me grilled-cheese sandwiches when I had fevers as a kid. I look away, jaw clenched.

What happened at my last job is a secret, supposedly, but the world is small and everyone talks. The memory comes back sharp as a knife: waiting tables, the burn of burnt sugar, the owner—an Alpha—smiling at me with all his yellowed teeth. The night of my unpredicted heat, locked in the walk-in cooler. His wife found us, or rather, found him trying to bite my neck to mark me. She punched him in the face. Then she screamed at me until I nearly had a heart attack. I lost my job, but not before she called my parents, who called Eddie, who drove 20 minutes out of his way gave me a ride on his only day off to bring me home.

I blink the memory away, but the sour metallic taste remains at the back of my throat. “Whatever,” I mutter. “Just don’t get annoyed if I have to steal your coupon stach.” Eddie flashes a weak thumbs-up, and for a second, we both pretend this is normal.

Eddie swaps my folder with one hidden in his apron. I snatch it and flip it open—everything’s identical except where “Omega” should be, it now reads “Beta.” I glare up at him. He raises his hands defensively, already bracing for my reaction.

Then: ring of a bell and the world resumes. A tall man walks out of the door, not just tall but mythic, like he’s been chiseled out of some Scandinavian legend. Dirty-blond hair, broad shoulders that stretch the seams of his black flour streaked button up, and eyes the color of honey melting in sunlight. he looks at the two of us, skip over me, catch on Eddie, and then return to me, linger. I feel my hackles go up, but he just nods.

He says, “Almost time to open.” His voice is low, a little rough, like he doesn’t use it much. “Where’s the new guy?” Eddie steps aside, producing me like a magic trick. “Found him!” Eddie says, always too eager. “Boss, this is the guy I told you about yesterday—the one who needs a job.” I shrink into myself, hoping my blush doesn’t betray me. Eddie grabs my folder—my folder, with my name and everything—and hands it to the man.

The man flips through it quickly. He never glances down at my name, just scans the pages, then tucks the folder under one arm. “You got a name?” he asks, barely curious.

“Henry. Henry Gardner. But everyone calls me Hen,” I say, hating the way my voice cracks on the nickname. He offers his hand, palm up, waiting. I shake it, and it’s like grasping an iron railing in winter. Eddie’s smirk says, ‘Too late to back out now.’

“Espen Larsen,” he says. “Temporary owner. Sophia runs most things, but I’m here for…other reasons.” His eyes linger, not unkind, but watchful. Like he’s cataloging my weaknesses for future reference. I resist the urge to shiver. I remember him from the last few times I bought a coffee from here or met up with Eddie after work.

“Sorry, my hands are cold,” I say, pulling away. “It’s freezing out here.”

He shrugs, as if to say, “Life’s cold. You get used to it.” Eddie claps his hands together, breaking the tension. “Shall we?” He gestures toward the front door of cafe. I follow, not because I want to, but because I don’t know what else to do.

The cafe is a living room masquerading as a business. Mismatched tables, velvet chairs, walls covered in thrift-store art and old movie posters. The air is thick with yeast and sugar and the sharp tang of espresso. A few employees are already at work: a girl with rainbow hair stacking plates behind the counter, a broad-shouldered boy in a frilly apron slicing loaves of bread, and a middle-aged woman—Sophia, I assume—yelling instructions in rapid-fire Italian. They all glance up as we enter, eyes flicking from Espen to me and back, like they’re guessing how long I’ll last.

Espen leads us to a booth by the window: rectangle table, cracked vinyl benches, a little vase with a plastic daisy in the middle. I sit, folding my hands in my lap, and try not to look as nervous as I feel. Eddie plops in next to Espen, crowding him, but Espen doesn’t seem to notice or if he did he didn’t seem to care.

Sophia approaches with a tray of cookies and sets it down in the center of the table. She wipes her hands on her apron, leaving white smears, and fixes her gaze on me. “Mangia mangia!” she says, nodding at the cookies. “You look like you haven’t eaten in a week.” I mumble a thank you and reach for one, hands shaking. The cookie is soft, dusted with powdered sugar, and tastes like Sunday mornings in my grandmother’s kitchen. For a second, I forget to be scared.

Eddie nudges me, crumbs on his cheek. “Best Linzer cookies in six counties,” he brags. “Sophia’s a genius.” She bats him away with a dish towel and returns to the kitchen, already barking new orders.

Espen sets my folder on the table and taps it. “So. Five years at your last job?” His tone is neutral but there’s a challenge in his eyes, like he expects me to flinch. I don’t. Not this time.

“Yes, sir. Waited tables. Learned some baking when the chef was shorthanded.” I sip my coffee, careful not to spill. “Got tired of the late hours. Wanted something more…normal.” I leave out everything else. The heat. The night in the cooler. The way the world narrows to a pinpoint when someone bigger, stronger, decides your fate.

He flips to the next page. “Eddie says you bake. Most people lie on resumes, but you don’t strike me as stupid.” It’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve gotten in months. I inhale. “I learned from my grandmother. She raised me after my parents split. Her bakery closed when the city hiked rent, but she taught me everything before she died.” I don’t mention the funeral, the way the whole town came out for her, the table stacked so high with her cookies it looked like a wedding.

Eddie beams. “His rugelach? Unreal. You should try it, Espen.”

Espen nods. He seems to be recalibrating, like he’s trying to fit me into some mental grid and finding the right spot. “You work mornings?” he asks. “Or nights?”

“Mornings,” I say quickly. “I’m better with sunlight, But if need be nights are okay as long as its after school.” It’s true. Darkness makes me jumpy. Too many bad memories.

He nods again, as if he expected that. “We start prep at five. Can you make it by then if we need you?”

“Absolutely,” I say, and I mean it.

He closes the folder and leans back, crossing his arms. “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow with my decision, If yes I’ll give you a week. Sophia will show you the ropes. Pay’s livable , tips are good and you get a meal every shift.” He glances at Eddie, then back to me. “Don’t make me regret this. We don’t do drama here. Understand?” He’s giving me mixed signals but I think I got the job? I thought still confused slightly, I look over at Eddie who gives me a thumbs up.

“Yes, sir,” I say, and mean that too. The relief is a physical thing, like the uncoiling of a snake inside my chest.

Sophia marches over with a steaming cinnamon roll and sets it in front of me. “For luck,” she says, then shuffles off before I can thank her.

Eddie grins, bouncing in his seat. “Told you he’d hire you!” He raises his coffee cup in a toast.

Espen, for the first time, almost smiles. He stands, pats me on the shoulder—a heavy, careful touch—and leaves Eddie and I to finish our coffee.

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