“There’s a local Christmas tree crisis. Apparently, the regular vendor retired with no notice, and the town has been unable to find another supplier with enough stock so close to Christmas—so now the tree-less masses of Snowflake Valley are descending on poor Everett, who is forced to open and cater to those hoping to get their hands on dying vegetation they’ll display for two weeks, then discard. Hence why we’re here to help or supervise.”
Melody’s lips twitch. “You’re really selling the Christmas spirit.”
“I contain multitudes, oh Melody,” I say, seizing the opportunity. “Don’t forget, you promised to walk Oxford today.”
Her brow furrowed. “I did?”
“Last night,” I nod solemnly. “You were very insistent. Something about bonding with your spirit animal.”
Gabe nudges me with an elbow. I’ve known the man long enough to recognize his “you’re pushing it” nudge from his “that’s funny, but I won’t admit it” nudge.
This is definitely the former.
“I don’t recall that,” Melody says slowly, her cheeks flaming in that cute way again. “But sure, OK. I’ll come by once I finish this.”
I adjust my scarf, which is threatening to cut off my brain’s circulation. “Okay, don’t forget, technically you said, and these are your exact words, ‘that llama is my soul mate, and I would die for him.’”
What I’m not telling her is that after her confessional session, she started noticing us, and I mean really noticing us.
It started subtly.
She kept inching closer to Gabe on the log bench. Then she’d drift toward Everett when he spoke. At one point, she actually leaned over and sniffed—not subtly—at Everett’s neck, then declared he smelled “like Christmas morning, but sexier.”
Gabe got the same treatment. She told him he smelled like “a chocolate forest, where very hot, brooding men chop wood shirtless.” Her words, not mine, though I can’t say I disagree.
I didn’t get sniffed, which tracks.
As a beta, my subtle scent of old books and freshly ground nutmeg fails to trigger her omega response. But I did get a slurred declaration that my eyes were like twinkling stars and a request to “read me to sleep with your voice that sounds like velvet.” Again, her words.
I’ve been with Gabe long enough to read the minuscule changes in his expression that most people miss. The slight dilation of his pupils when Melody handed him her empty mug last night. The way he and Everett both inhaled deeply when she laughed.
There might be something here.
Gabe clears his throat. “We should get going. Everett’s waiting.”
I’m getting ahead of myself, of course.
One drunken night doesn’t mean she’s our missing piece. But I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and right now they’re telling me Melody might be precisely what we need.
As we step outside, the cold is actually refreshing.
I’ll never admit it, but I was starting to sweat under my 17 layers. I shoot one last glance back at Melody, who’s watching us from the kitchen counter.
“Wish us luck!” I call to her. “If I don’t return, tell my collection of first editions I loved them!”
She laughs, “I’ll make sure Oxford walks past your frozen body with the appropriate amount of judgment.”
Gabe guides me down the steps with a hand at my lower back—necessary given my limited mobility.
Yes, I may look like a marshmallow, but at least I make a marshmallow look good.
Gabe straddles the snowmobile at the bottom of the stairs, with the same easy confidence he does everything else, turning to look at me with barely concealed amusement.
“You coming?”
“On that death trap?” I waddle toward it, my layers making each step a negotiation. “There’s no seatbelt. No airbag. Not even doors.”
“We drove back on it last night,” he points out.