Chapter 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 sultry factor 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?”
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.
My shriek is more of a guttural “hwaaaarg” noise, halfway between a choke and a scream.
The eyes blink slowly, unperturbed by my reaction.
Heart pounding, I peer more carefully at the window. Standing on the porch, face pressed against the glass, is a white, fluffy llama wearing a blue knitted scarf.
“Holy shit.”
The llama blinks again, giving me what I can only describe as a deeply judgmental look.
I weigh my options.
Option One: Pretend I never saw it, let the hot alpha solve his own llama drama.
Option Two: Chase the animal completely drunk, and try to corral it in the snow.
Option Three: Befriend it, keep it as a large stuffed animal, and never tell anyone about this night.
I cautiously pad toward the front door and slowly crack it open. Oxford takes a step back, but doesn’t run away. He regards me, tilting his head slightly.
“Would you like to come in?” I’m not sure what llama etiquette is, but if I were lost in the snow, I’d want cocoa and a place by the fire.
He doesn’t budge.
I grab my coat, scarf, and boots, stumbling slightly as I pull them on.
“Come on then,” I sigh, closing the door behind me. “I’ll walk you back home.”