Page 2 of The Billionaire Alpha's Surprise Baby

She groans again and glances at the clock. “Fine. But you have to de-feather the living room before you go. And you owe me big.”

“Yes!” I cry in relief. “Of course. Anything you want.”

“I mean it,” Jules warns. “You work too hard, girl.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” I retort.

No one — and I mean, no one — works as hard as Jules. Crisp N Clean isn’t her only gig. She just started her own high-end cleaning business, and she still sometimes fills in for her flaky cousin over at Happy Helpers.

“Whatever,” says Jules. “You need some fun in your life! When’s the last time you got laid?”

I swallow as a surge of heat flushes my cheeks.

The thing about working multiple jobs and taking online classes is that it leaves little to no time for dating. Jules knows my social circle begins and ends with her, and she can probably guess that men aren’t beating down my door when I spend my days swapping out one sweaty uniform T-shirt for another.

“Uh-huh,” she tuts. “That’s what I thought.”

Her expression is so smug that I’m tempted to knock her right off that barstool.

“You and me. Friday night. We’re going out.”

“I don’t know . . .” I begin. “I have an early shift at the café on Saturday . . .”

“Nope. That’s my stipulation,” says Jules. “Girls night. We go hard. And you have to actually make an effort to have some fun — or you can scrub the floors yourself.”

I sigh. Jules has me over a barrel, and she knows it. I can’t afford to lose this job at the café — not if I want to be able to eat while I’m schlepping across Asia.

“All right,” I say. “Just . . . nothing too crazy.”

I breakevery traffic law getting to the café for my shift. I walk through the back door two minutes late — sweaty, anxious, and reeking of Pine-Sol. I didn’t see the owner’s car parked in the alley, though, so it’s possible that no one will notice my tardiness.

“Where have you been? We are swamped!” barks Philip as I scurry to the front of the café, tying my apron strings as I go.

So much for nobody noticing.

For once, Philip isn’t just being dramatic. There’s a line of patrons stretching all the way to the entrance, and at least four customers are impatiently milling around the pickup counter, waiting for their orders.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

Philip shoots me a withering look.

He knows I’m lying. It’s the middle of the week, which tends to be the slowest, and we haven’t had any snow in days.

“I need two small flat whites, one medium mocha with oat milk, and a medium dirty chai.”

I nod and jump behind the espresso machine, pulling the milk out of the refrigerator and knocking out the portafilter.

I’ve just gotten the milk steamed for the first two drinks when a pale snotty-looking guy approaches the counter. “Excuse me, miss, but this drink is absolutely revolting.”

He holds up a cup for my inspection, as if I can identify every latte by sight.

“What did you order?”

“A cappuccino with coconut milk.” He wrinkles his nose. “It’s completely flat. No foam at all.”

I sigh. A cappuccino is easy when it’s made with cow’s milk, but any kind of plant-based milk just doesn’t froth the same way.

“I’m sorry about that,” I say, pulling my very best barista smile. “I’ll remake it right away and bring it out to you.”

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