Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Clay
I don’t know how I find myself lying on top of Hollie Bright, but I don’t hate it.
I don’t hate it at all. Up close, her scent is even sweeter.
Her eyes a formidable turquoise color and her breath warm against my skin.
Our mouths are only inches apart, and it would be exceptionally easy to lower my head and press my lips to her soft pink ones, glossy with some kind of balm.
“Jeez, Hollie, are you okay?” my little sister calls out.
“Oh,” Hollie says, those mesmerizing eyes gazing straight into mine as she bites on her bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“But,” I say, “I seem to have the upper hand now, Omega.”
I don’t mean to say that word; it just slips out of my mouth, and I notice the way it causes her pupils to blossom.
Just an innate, pre-programmed reaction she can’t control. And yet, a reaction that calls to all my own innate, pre-programmed reactions.
“Upper hand how?” she says, with a hint of defiance.
I scoop up a load of snow and hold it above her face.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she says, although I can tell by the wobble in her voice that she’s not so sure about that.
“I wouldn’t?” I say.
“I’d like to remind you, Clay Jackson,” she says, “that I’m a guest in your house, that I’ve only been in the neighborhood for a day, and it wouldn’t be very polite to shove snow in my face.”
“Even though you just shoved snow down my shirt?” I ask.
“Hmm,” she manages a little shrug.
“Even though you vomited on my boots last night?”
“I missed your boots,” she says.
I shake my head. “There was also that time–”
“Okay, Okay,” she says. “I surrender.” She closes her eyes. “Do your worst.”
But the problem is, with her eyes closed like that, she looks even more kissable.
Everything in my body is urging me to do it.
Most of all, it’s her scent urging me; there’s all these little signals in it that are activating my Alpha hindbrain, telling me to Kiss the Omega, kiss the Omega, kiss the Omega.
That can’t be right. There’s no way Hollie Bright wants me to kiss her. There’s no way she wants an Alpha to kiss her. That can’t be what her scent is signaling.
So it’s going to have to be the snow instead.
Except, I’m not so sure I can bring myself to do that.
Reluctantly – because I’m a creep –I roll myself up off the Omega.
Her eyes snap open, and she looks up at me with curiosity.
When I’m standing up, I drop the snowball to the floor and offer her my hand, meaning to pull her up onto her feet.
She lifts her hand, but before I get a chance to take it, I’m ambushed by two pack mates and a little sister.
They come at me from all directions, smothering snow in my face, in my hair, and once again down my shirt, and then somehow all of us are wrestling in the snow.
And I try not to think about how much I’d like to be wrestling with the Omega in my bed.
The wrestling continues for 10 minutes until we realize that my mom is yelling at us. We all stop, glancing up from the ground to find her standing by the snowman that Hollie and Annie were building. She’s looking mighty unimpressed.
“What is this monstrosity?” she asks.
“Annie built it,” I say.
“Annie Jackson,” my mom says, “I thought we educated you better than that.”
She snaps out the carrot and the two walnuts from the middle of the snowman’s belly, lowering it half a foot, and rearranging them.
“There,” she says, “that’s much more anatomically correct. Seems you need to go back to school.”
We all laugh. And then my mom is saying, “we’re leaving for the tree in 20 minutes, so anyone who needs to change clothes, visit the bathroom, or grab equipment – go now. We’re not waiting for you.”
“Tree?” Hollie asks as she climbs up onto her feet and brushes snow from her body. An action I’d happily do for her.
“Yep,” Annie says, “it’s a Jackson tradition. The day before Christmas Eve we head out to the Christmas tree nursery, choose one we like, and bring it in.”
“Christmas tree nursery?” Hollie asks.
“Yeah,” I explain. “We grow a few Christmas trees here on the ranch. Not very many, just enough for the locals.”
“And enough to ensure we have a good choice of the best for ourselves,” Annie says. “Come on.”
She beckons to her friend, and then they’re skipping off to the house. I climb slowly back onto my feet as my pack mates do the same.
“You looked very comfortable,” Tucker says, landing his hand on my shoulder with a big grin.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say.
“I think you do,” he says, his grin widening further. “Landing on top of the Omega like that. I’d have paid a lot of money to swap places with you.”
“It was an accident,” I explain. “She could have been hurt.”
“She looked very comfortable from where I was standing too,” Tucker says.
I glance at him, wondering if he’s saying that to wind me up or if it’s really true. But Nash is nodding in agreement.
“Her scent seemed to suggest she liked it as well.”
So he noticed that too.
“It’s just an Omega reaction,” I say. “Hollie Bright’s never liked me, and she’s definitely never liked Alphas.”
“Why wouldn’t she like you?” Nash asks seriously.
“Yeah,” Tucker says, “You’ve got the personality of a broom. You’re as grumpy as Scrooge and you like to berate her in public.”
“He’s also tolerably good looking, hard working, and loyal,” Nash says.
I ignore them both, heading instead to where my truck is parked outside the house.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get a head start on the others. Let’s choose the best tree.”
I almost say for Hollie, because the seriously soft spot I’ve always harbored for the omega – the one that has lain dormant for years – is beginning to reawaken, even if she did vomit on my boots last night.
I want her to have the best Christmas because I know it’s going to be hard for her and I want to make it special.
We drive out to the copse of Christmas trees.
We cut and shipped out most of the fully grown trees several weeks back, but we left about half a dozen of the best for the family to choose from.
We walk through them now, assessing each one.
Nash, in particular, has a strong opinion on Christmas tree aesthetics.
He insists it can’t be too tall, too short, too fat, or too thin, and he likes it to look symmetrical.
“I think it’s out of these two,” he says.
“It doesn’t matter what you think,” I say. “You know it’s going to be my mom’s choice.”
The other two nod in agreement. They spent last Christmas here at the ranch with my family as well and they know how things work.
Five minutes later, my dad’s truck is pulling up, and he climbs out along with my mom, Hollie, and Annie. They walk into the copse of trees. As well as the six fully grown, there are the ones we planted more recently – all different heights.
Hollie’s eyes light up. “It is so pretty,” she says. “And there’s so many Christmas trees.”
“And we’ve come to choose the best,” my dad explains. “The one we’re going to put in the front room.”
“This is so lovely,” Hollie says. “We never had a real Christmas tree at home before.”
“Oh no,” Annie says, “don’t tell me you had one of those horrible plastic ones.”
“There’s no point in having a real tree in Rockview,” Hollie reminds her. “It’s so hot, they wither in about three seconds flat.”
“Well, this one will last,” my mom says. “So come on, Hollie, help us choose.”
She leads the Omega through to the remaining fully grown trees, and they walk through, my sister on the other side of my mom. We watch from a distance as the women assess each tree.
“We could be here a while,” my dad reminds us men, passing me the family axe.
“I think they’ll choose that one,” Nash says, pointing to the one he’s already selected.
The girls continue to weave in and out of the trees, Hollie’s voice and her scent carrying back to us on the cold air and making something in my stomach warm and cozy. Then they’re walking back toward us.
“Chosen?” my dad asks them.
“It’s out of two,” Annie says.
And Nash smiles, because it seems his prediction was correct.
“I think Hollie should choose,” my mom says.
“Me?” Hollie says. “It’s your family tree. It’s your house, your tradition.”
“Yes,” my mom says, “and you’re our guest, so I’d like you to choose.”
Hollie spins back round and looks across at the small selection of trees.
“It feels a bit cruel,” she says.
“Don’t tell me you have a problem with cutting down trees as well,” I mutter.
“No, I mean each one was grown to fulfill its Christmas destiny as a Christmas tree, and only one gets to fulfill that destiny. What will happen to the rest?”
“We’ll cut them down and use them for firewood most probably,” I say.
The Omega practically balks in front of us.
“We could have two trees,” Tucker says, and I glare at him, because two trees is twice the work. It’s hard enough as it is cutting down one tree.
“No, I can choose,” Hollie says. She taps her fingers against her plush pink lips. “That one,” she says at last, picking exactly the tree that Nash had already chosen.
“Good choice,” he says.
“That tree it is,” I say, swinging the axe up onto my shoulder and marching that way.
“What?” she says. “Aren’t you going to cut it down with a chainsaw?”
“Absolutely not,” my dad says. “Got to do it the old-fashioned way, the way this family has been doing it for decades.”
“You’re really going to cut it down by hand?” she says. “Isn’t that going to take hours?”
I snort. “No,” I say, striding to the tree, aware that the little Omega is trotting along beside me.
“Stand back,” I tell her, and then I’m swinging the axe through the air.
The blade hits the tree trunk with a loud thwack, making the Omega gasp.
I do it again, and her scent spirals through the air.
I peek her way. I take it she likes this display, and so I put on my best show for her, rolling up my sleeve, tossing my hat to one side, and flexing my biceps.
I said I wanted to make her happy and if watching me swing my axe does just that, who am I to complain.