Page 2 of The Alpha's Protective Mate

Jazz, with her pink hair and bold, silver eyeshadow, has the customers eyeing her in blatant interest.

“Three lattes and two espressos, Charlotte,” Jazz says, her voice throaty. I notice the red marks around her neck and press my lips together, trying to rein in my curiosity about what she and her boyfriend, Marcus, were up to last night. Jazz and Marcus have a similar style of dressing: outrageously bold hairstyles, dark leather clothes, and more often than not, spiked chokers around their necks.

The only reason Jazz works here is because her father recently bought this cafe. That’s not to say that Jazz isn’t a hard worker or a nice person. She looks intimidating, but she’s a sweetheart.

“Gotcha.” I tie the apron around my waist before calling out, “Sorry, folks. My bad. I’ll have your coffees with you in a jiffy!”

“Did you work late last night?” Jazz asks, handing me another slip and bagging a muffin.

I yawn as I froth some milk in a jug. “Yeah. I was making the dough so Gina could get a head start on the croissants. Got home around two.”

“Did you log your hours?”

“Yup,” I grin. “Need the overtime.”

“You also need sleep.” Jazz gives me a sharp look as I hand her two of the lattes. “You look like death warmed over.”

“You have such a way with words, Jazz.” I roll my eyes at her. “New customer. Look out.”

She gets back to taking orders and filling up the cash register while I keep preparing the early morning caffeine drinks that nearly the entire street drops by to purchase. Having a coffee shop located in such a busy business district of Portland has its advantages. I always wondered why the previous owner sold off this place. But Jazz’s father, with his magic business touch, has brought new life to it. A wooden ambience that provides a romantic setting in the evenings and a comfortable workplace for freelancers in the mornings has brought a lot of customers here. Which means the tips are hefty.

It takes us more than an hour to get through the majority of the morning rush. At the end of it, Jazz stretches her arms over her head. “Man, I hate the morning shift.”

“Why did you get assigned to the morning again?” I ask her as I prepare a vanilla frappe for her. I’m already munching on a muffin.

Jazz rounds the counter and sits down in one of the booths, stretching her legs over the seat. “Dad caught me sneaking out with Marcus for a concert. His plan is to work me to death, I guess.”

I glance at her wrist. “From the look of it, you still managed to sneak out again last night.”

She smirks and tries to rub away the stamp mark from the club she must have visited. “Marcus had his band playing there. I swear, if it weren’t for the trust fund, I would have moved out the minute I turned eighteen, two months ago.”

“Sure,” I scoff. “And leave your old father alone in that mansion of his? With no one to look after him? I doubt it.”

“I could do it!” Jazz tries to sound convincing, and I laugh, handing her the drink.

“Jazz, you love your dad. You’re not going anywhere. He’s just worried about you. You know that.”

The teenager sips her drink. “Marcus understands me. I don’t know why that’s so hard for Dad to get.”

“I wish I could help you in that department,” I murmur as I look out the shop window, “but my father didn’t care what I did.”

“He threw you out, didn’t he?” Jazz gives me a curious look. “Sorry, I heard Grace talking about it.”

I shrug, warming my hands by wrapping them around the hot cup of coffee I’ve made for myself. “Yeah. When I was fourteen. Eight years ago, I guess. You’re lucky to have a father who cares about you, Jazz. I always say people should count their blessings.”

Jazz is quiet, her expression pensive.

I rarely talk about my past. I try not to think about my family or my clan. It doesn’t help that the compound where my clan lives is on the edge of Portland. At times, I’ve considered moving away, but I guess I don’t have those kinds of guts.

I see a man crossing the road, and my eyes widen fractionally. “Uh, oh, it’s that guy. I’m going into the back.”

“What guy?” Jazz straightens up and peers around the booth. When she sees him, the corner of her mouth tightens. “Really, Charlotte. What do you have against him? It’s not his fault his face is scarred.”

“It’s not the scar,” I say, starting to stand up. “I just don’t want to talk to him.”

Just then, a ringtone blares in the cafe, and Jazz reaches for her pocket. She blinks at the name on the screen before shooting me an apologetic look. “Sorry, it’s my thesis supervisor. I gotta take this.” I watch her reach for her backpack and bring out her laptop. “I’m going to need the back office.”

Great.

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