The cat was back.
Vera stood, bin in hand, at the kitchen door of the old Federation building she’d just signed a lease on and met the cat’s stare with one
of her own.
‘Scram,’ she said, as she tipped the rubbish she was carrying into the alley skip bin. She was too tired to put much heat into the word.
The cat paused in a puddle of spring sunshine then settled into a brick of fur.
Excellent. She’d have no trouble at all running kitchen staff, a barista, and a team of waiters if this was how a stray cat responded
to her commands. She lowered the rubbish bin to the ground and took a second to ease the knots in her back. What had she been thinking? She knew nothing about running a café, particularly one in a small tourist town in the Snowy Mountains. All she knew was that she needed an income to pay for her aunt’s medical bills, and cooking was the only skill she had left…