The wine opener is still in one of my bags. I dig through three before I find it, wrapped in a dish towel for safekeeping. The cork comes out with a satisfying pop.
I don’t bother with a glass.
2
Melody
The problem of drinking alone when you’re sad is that you’re still miserable, just with wine.
But then something miraculous happens, almost like a Christmas miracle.
The wine warms your belly, and suddenly, you find yourself having a dance party for one in your reindeer pajamas, belting Christmas songs that feature significantly more hip thrusts and far less vocal control than they normally would.
The bobblehead Santa watches, his plastic eyes judging my life choices as I attempt to twerk to Bing Crosby.
“This is fine,” I tell him. “People spend Christmas alone all the time.”
I take another gulp of wine.
I spin around the living room, arms outstretched, nearly knocking over the perfectly arranged nutcracker army. My phone shuffles to “Santa Baby,” and I immediately dial the sultryfactor to eleven. Shimmying across the hardwood floor in my fuzzy socks, like an ice-skating princess.
“Santa baby,” I purr at the bobblehead, “just slip a family under the tree, for me…”
My impromptu dance routine evolves into something that would make my high school dance teacher scream in horror—part twerking, part interpretive dance, expressing my existential crisis through increasingly uncoordinated movements.
I glimpse my reflection in the window and snort-laugh at the sight. My hip wiggles look like I’m having a seizure, and my wavy blonde hair has escaped its bun, flying around my face with each jerky movement.
I’m in the middle of a particularly ambitious move involving a spin, hip pop, and what I imagine to be a seductive hair flip when I hear a knock on the door.
I freeze mid-movement, nearly toppling over as momentum carries me forward while my brain screams at me to halt.
It’s nine p.m. in the dead of winter, in the middle of nowhere.
My first thought is home invasion, my second is elves coming to congratulate me on my decor, and my third is the Ghost of Christmas Past.
The knock comes again, more insistent.
“Just a minute!” I call, frantically searching for something to cover my reindeer pajamas. I grab a red throw blanket, wrap it around me, and smooth my hair.
When I open the door, I’m hit with two immediate impressions: the fresh air feels deliciously cool against my flushed skin, and the alpha standing on my porch is really, really attractive.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with the kind of build that comes from physical labor. Blond hair peeks out from under a knitted hat, and he has the type of face that makes you think of those lumberjack calendars. With a strong jaw, kind brown eyes,and a smile that seems almost apologetic for interrupting, he stands there staring blankly at me.
“Are you selling cookies?”
He blinks. “No, sorry.” He gives his head a little shake. “I’m Everett Pine, the rental owner. I live down at the end of the road.”
“Melody,” I reply, trying to sound like I haven’t been drinking alone and dancing with a plastic Santa. I lean against the doorframe to steady myself. “Melody Winters.”
“Sorry to bother you so late,” he says, rubbing his gloved hands together. “I noticed your lights were still on.”
It’s only then that I realize I can smell him; fresh pine and peppermint. I’ve worked with alphas for years, and no scent has ever affected me like this. It’s like an instantaneous warm, tingling feeling that lights up my whole body, putting my omega hindbrain on high alert.
The Cabernet must be dulling my omega suppressants.
“No problem,” I say automatically. “What’s up?”
“This is going to sound strange, but have you seen a llama?”