I stare at him, sure I’ve misheard. “A… llama?”
“Yeah,” Everett says, looking slightly embarrassed. “His name is Oxford. He’s about this tall—” he holds a hand up, “—white, very fluffy. He’s wearing a scarf.”
“Who’s wearing a scarf?” I ask, confused.
“Oxford. The llama.”
“The llama is wearing a scarf?”
“He has several. My grandma knits them for him.”
“Why does he wear scarves?”
“I think he likes them.”
I stare at him, trying to determine if this is some bizarre, wine-induced hallucination of a hot alpha looking for a fashion-forward llama.
“I haven’t seen any llamas, scarfed or otherwise,” I finally say. “Is that… normal around here? Wandering llamas?”
Everett laughs, and the sound is warm, making me momentarily forget the absolute absurdity of this conversation.
“Not usually, no. Oxford lives with us at Perfect Pines. He used to belong to Spring Blossom’s Psychiatrist working as a therapy animal, but he’s my grandma’s pet now. She’s been in the hospital, and he’s been acting out since she left—keeps escaping.”
“I’m sorry about your grandma.”
“Thanks. She’s doing better. Anyway, Oxford has a habit of visiting the neighbors. If you see him, could you give me a call?” He hands me his Perfect Pines business card and points out the phone number on the bottom.
“Sure,” I say, tucking it into my pajama pocket. “I’ll keep an eye out for a scarfed llama named Oxford.”
Everett smiles, and I feel that tingle again. “Thanks, Melody. Enjoy your party.”
“Party?”
He gestures vaguely toward the cabin. “I heard the music. Sounds like fun.”
“Oh. Right. The party.” I force a laugh. “Just getting started.”
I watch as he walks back toward the parked snowmobile—yes, a snowmobile, because apparently this man couldn’t get any more stereotypically rugged and appealing. He swings his leg over and straddles the seat, and there is confidence in the way he handles the machine. The broad line of his shoulders flexing beneath his winter coat as he starts the engine sends a shiver through me.
“Jeeze, Melody. When did hot for bikers turn into hot for ‘snowmobilers?’”
Is that even a word?
Must be the Cabernet.
I close the door and lean against it, wondering if I’ve had too much wine or not nearly enough.
“A llama named Oxford,” I tell Bobblehead. “With scarves. Plural.”
I restart my music, but my enthusiasm for solo dancing has diminished. Instead, I flop onto the couch with my wine and stare at the Christmas tree, all lit up.
A wheel of emergency Brie later, and I’ve moved on to the melancholy Christmas songs. Michael Bublé is crooning about white Christmases while I conduct an invisible orchestra with my empty wine bottle.
“I’m dreaming of a WHITE CHRISTMAS,” I cry out.
Finishing out the song, I turn to my audience to take a final bow, and that’s when I see two large, dark eyes staring at me through the front window.
I scream and scramble backward, dropping my empty wine bottle.