Peppermint Pines Pack (Seasons of the Pack #2)

Chapter 1

Melody

Mariah Carey is telling me what she wants for Christmas for the third time since I left the city four hours ago, and I’m belting it right back at her.

My voice cracks on the high note, but there’s no one here to judge me except the dashboard Santa I picked up at a gas station, whose plastic head bobs in approval.

Freedom feels heavenly, two weeks away from my boss’s incessant demands and the soul-crushing life of corporate hell. I intentionally left my work cell at home.

Not even Ashcroft Media can reach me in Snowflake Valley, unless someone from IT has been secretly implanting microchips in my molars.

Unlikely, but not impossible.

“Testing. Hello, Henry?”

Nothing.

Of course, I did bring my laptop. My guilty conscience wouldn’t let me leave without it. But I fully plan to use it zero times.

Just me, my family, and a picture-perfect holiday in a town renowned for its Christmas celebrations.

“Two. Whole. Weeks.” I shout with delight, drumming my palms against the steering wheel.

I can hardly believe it.

The words taste like the first bite of chocolate after a diet: forbidden, sinful, and delicious. “Two weeks of no emails, no calls, no ‘Melody, where’s my coffee?’” I say in my best grumpy Marcus voice.

The last three months at Ashcroft Media have been a special kind of torture.

Marcus decided to acquire two smaller firms before year-end, and I’ve been working fourteen-hour days coordinating meetings that could have been emails, apologizing to people Marcus has offended, and surviving on vending-machine granola bars and overheated coffee.

My stomach growls at the memory of those stale granola bars. I reach blindly into my snack bag and pull out a chocolate-covered pretzel, popping it into my mouth. The sweet-salty combination melts on my tongue, infinitely better than anything from the office vending machine.

“This is living,” I mumble through my mouthful of chocolate.

My aunt Karen, who pulled strings I never asked her to pull, got me this “amazing opportunity.”

She keeps reminding me how lucky I am.

My mother keeps telling me how lucky I am.

My dad keeps telling me how lucky I am.

Yep. Very lucky.

Lucky to be chronically sleep-deprived, to have my personality slowly eroded by corporate politics, and to have my omega status constantly undermined by my alpha boss because his own omega fled the city and turned him into a laughingstock, which I admit, brings me a tiny spark of joy.

It’s too bad he took it out on every other omega in the office, especially me.

But not today. Today I’m free.

My little red beetle is packed so tightly it’s a miracle I can see out the rearview mirror. I had to Tetris everything just right, and even then, I’m pretty sure I’ve violated several vehicle safety recommendations.

Three suitcases of clothes because I couldn’t decide what to bring (Will we go sledding?

Ice skating? Formal dinner? Casual brunch?

Better pack for everything), six bags of gifts because I’m the aunt, sister, and daughter who loves to spoil those I love with presents, and enough Christmas decorations to make Santa’s workshop look minimalist.

Fat, lazy snowflakes drift from the pearl-gray sky just as I pass the “Welcome to Snowflake Valley” sign. They land on my windshield and melt into tiny rivers that my wipers sweep away.

My heart skips a little as I slow down, drinking in the sights before me.

I turn onto Main Street and see quaint little shops sporting names like “Mistletoe Bakery” and “Frostbite Brews,” every lamppost wrapped in garlands with massive red bows.

Shop windows display miniature winter wonderlands with trains circling tiny villages.

A group of carolers in Victorian-style clothing stand on one corner, their breath visible as they sing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

I crack my window to better hear their merry voices, and the scent of gingerbread wafts into my car. My mouth waters instantly, reminding me that chocolate pretzels aren’t a proper meal.

“Okay, Snowflake Valley, you had me at the giant candy canes.” They line the sidewalk, at least six feet tall and glistening with red and white stripes that look good enough to lick.

My GPS chirps that I should turn right onto Pine Forest Road. This street is quieter, winding away from the town center, bordered by tall pines laden with fresh snow.

It’s beautiful and peaceful, exactly what I need.

Near the end of the road, I catch my first glimpse of what the rental listing calls “The Grand Cabin.”

The cabin is, well, grand.

Two stories of logs with a wraparound porch, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a chimney wide enough to accommodate Santa—even after he’s hit every cookie plate in the world. I park in the circular driveway and stare for a minute, letting it sink in that this palace is all ours for the next two weeks.

The key is under the mat, as promised, so I unlock the door and step into a space so beautiful I actually gasp like a rom-com moron.

Cathedral ceilings soar above the main living area, crossed with exposed wooden beams. The promised stone fireplace dominates the north wall, big enough to roast an entire reindeer (not that I would…

obviously. How would Santa do his rounds?).

The kitchen has the latest stainless steel appliances and enough counter space to prepare Christmas dinner for thirty, not just the twelve family members arriving tomorrow.

“Holy crap,” I shout as I twirl happily, my voice echoing slightly in the space. This place feels so warm and welcoming compared to my tiny, sparsely decorated apartment in the city. It’s not like I have time for decor shopping… or even having friends over.

I quickly tour the six bedrooms, mentally assigning each to different family members based on the size of their group.

I claim the smallest one for myself, the one tucked under the eaves with a window seat overlooking the forest. It feels like a secret hideaway, perfect for escaping when the family togetherness inevitably becomes too much.

Then, I start the laborious process of unloading my car, which takes seven trips and leaves me winded, my cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion.

Sweat trickles down my spine despite the December chill, and my thighs burn from trudging through snow while carrying bags that seem to get heavier with each trip.

I spend the next few hours in a decorating frenzy: garlands along the stair railings, twinkling lights around every window, and a small army of nutcrackers on the mantle.

The pre-lit artificial tree (because who wants to vacuum pine needles?) goes in the corner with the best view, and I hang every ornament I brought.

By six o’clock, The Grand Cabin is pure holiday overload: twinkling lights in every window, garlands everywhere, and not a single ornament out of place. I’m blasting Christmas music, sipping hot chocolate buried in mini marshmallows, and feeling pretty pleased with myself when my phone rings.

Mom’s face lights up my screen.

“Hey! I was just putting the finishing touches on everything. You guys are going to love this place,” I say, collapsing onto the oversized couch.

There’s a pause, and I immediately know something’s wrong. It’s the same pause that came before “Grandpa’s in the hospital” and “We had to put Muffin down.” My fingers tighten around my mug.

“Honey,” Mom says, her voice tight. “We have a bit of a situation.”

My stomach drops. “What kind of situation?”

“Well, you know we just docked from the cruise…”

I didn’t know, actually, because no one bothered to tell me they were taking a pre-Christmas cruise, but I swallow the petty complaint.

“Half the ship came down with that virus that’s been going around. Your father’s been sick for three days. I started this morning. Aunt Karen and Uncle Bob, too.”

“But you’ll still make it tomorrow, right?” I hate how small my voice sounds, how the omega in me immediately whines at the thought of being left alone. I clear my throat, trying to sound more mature. “I mean, it’s probably just a 24-hour thing.”

“We can’t, sweetheart. They won’t let us disembark, and the doctor says we’re contagious for at least another 72 hours after symptoms stop, and no one’s symptoms have stopped. We can’t risk flying and getting other people sick.”

I close my eyes.

The marshmallows in my hot chocolate have dissolved into a sad, filmy layer. I stare at it, trying to process that I’ve just set up Christmas for twelve in a giant cabin, and no one is coming. All those carefully hung stockings and perfectly placed gifts.

“I’m so sorry, Melody. I know you were looking forward to this.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say automatically. “You guys focus on getting better.”

We talk for a few more minutes. Mom promises they’ll make it up to me, and I assure her it’s fine. When I hang up, I look around at the perfectly decorated cabin, big enough for a family reunion, now occupied by exactly one person.

“Merry Christmas to me,” I say to the bobblehead Santa. My gaze drifts to the bottle of wine on the counter—an expensive cabernet I brought to share with Dad.

I put my mug down and walk to the kitchen.

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.