Chapter 4 Everett
Everett
The bonfire crackles as if it’s judging me: snap, pop, and all.
Oxford’s been gone for four hours now. Somewhere in the dark, a stubborn llama is doing whatever llamas do when they escape their responsible owners.
I toss another log onto the fire and watch the sparks leap skyward.
My phone’s search history includes “how to entice a runaway llama” and “do llamas freeze to death” because, apparently, I’ve become that person. The one who can’t keep track of a creature whose primary skill is standing still and looking unimpressed.
“If you stare any harder at those flames, you’ll set your eyebrows on fire.”
Finn appears at my side, a steaming mug in each hand. “Here. Cocoa with a splash of bourbon. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not that kind of doctor,” I say, but take the mug anyway.
“No, but I’ve edited enough medical thrillers to play one at parties.”
The warmth seeps into my palms, and the bourbon hits my nose before the liquid touches my lips. It’s good—rich chocolate and enough alcohol to take the edge off.
Gabe emerges from the cottage, his mug clutched in one large hand. He settles beside Finn on the log bench.
“Oxford’s still AWOL?” Finn asks, tucking himself closer to Gabe for warmth.
“Yep.”
“He’ll come back,” Gabe says.
I sip my cocoa-bourbon mix. “I know. It’s just Granny would kill me if anything happened to him.”
“We’ll look for him first thing tomorrow,” Finn says. “No use tramping through the woods in pitch black. He’s probably found a cozy spot to sleep in.”
Gabe nods. “That llama’s smarter than all of us combined.”
“That’s what worries me.”
The fire pops again, sending up a shower of sparks.
“I really appreciate you guys coming up here,” I tell them, looking between my two friends. “With the tree crisis and everything… I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
Gabe grunts, which in Gabe-speak is practically a heartfelt declaration of eternal brotherhood.
“What even happened to the regular Christmas tree guy?” Finn asks.
I sigh. " Apparently, Sunny Cove was more appealing to Larry Jenkins than another winter selling trees in Snowflake Valley. Didn’t even tell anyone, just closed the shop and left a note on his door. ‘Gone fishing—permanently.’”
“Classy,” Finn snorts, taking another sip of his cocoa.
“And he wasn’t just our supplier; Larry had contracts with most of the towns in the county. When he bailed, everyone scrambled to find alternatives. Anyway, thank you. I’d be drowning without you guys.” The words feel inadequate for how grateful I actually am.
Finn waves away my gratitude with his free hand. “Please. Like we’d let you face the Christmas-hungry hordes alone.”
“Still. I’ve got you working during your holiday.” I poke at the fire with a stick, sending up another shower of sparks.
Gabe’s mouth quirks in what passes for his smile. “Better than the city.”
“Speak for yourself,” Finn mutters. “My fingers are permanently frozen.”
“You love it,” Gabe says quietly, his arm tightening around Finn’s waist.
Finn doesn’t deny it, just nestles closer to Gabe’s side, their bodies fitting together with the easy familiarity of a long relationship.
I take another sip of my cocoa, letting the bourbon warm me. “Perfect Pines was supposed to be a low-key side gig. A few of the regular customers, seeking the ‘authentic’ Christmas experience of chopping down their own tree.”
“Instead, you’ve got the entire town breathing down your neck for their picture-perfect pines,” Finn finishes.
“Mayor Reynolds told me I needed to ‘step up and serve the community.’ Wanted me to bring in chainsaws, hire a crew, clear-cut sections of the forest to meet regional demand.”
“You’re kidding,” Gabe says.
“I wish. He said Perfect Pines is the only viable operation in the county, so it’s my ‘civic duty’ to supply everyone. When I said no, he got… unpleasant.”
“What’d he say?” Finn asks.
“That I was putting my ‘sentimentality’ above the needs of hardworking families. That my grandfather would’ve done whatever it took.
” My jaw clenches at the memory. “He doesn’t understand.
This isn’t just a business. My grandfather planted these trees.
My father taught me to use an axe, not a chainsaw, for a reason.
We take what we need, sustainably. We don’t strip the land bare. ”
“So you told him to shove it,” Finn says with satisfaction.
“In more polite terms. I told him I’d handle Snowflake Valley, but I couldn’t possibly supply the entire county without compromising everything Perfect Pines stands for.”
Gabe nods approvingly. “Good.”
I snort. “Yeah, well, we had no time to prepare. No trees are cut or trimmed. I keep saying we’re at capacity, but when a mom shows up with three kids desperate for a Christmas tree from a neighboring town…
I can’t turn them away. So I sell them one anyway, and we fall further behind on Snowflake Valley orders. ”
“You can’t save everyone,” Gabe points out. “I know. Doesn’t make it easier.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Finn says. “And Gabe’s…” He trails off.
“Taking time off,” Gabe supplies, his tone brooking no further discussion.
I know there’s more to that story. Gabe hates his job in “equity management”—whatever that means—but never talks about it.
“The timing couldn’t be worse,” I say, gazing into the fire once more. “With Granny May in the hospital and this being the busiest time of year for my rental management business…” I trail off, not wanting to sound like I’m complaining.
“How is she doing?” Finn asks gently.
“Better. They’re moving her to the Snowflake Retirement Home for recovery. She’s not happy about it.”
“She’ll adjust,” Gabe says with the quiet confidence that makes him such a steadying presence. “It’s temporary.”
“And I’m sorry about the cabin,” I add. “If I’d known, I never would have rented it out. Now you’re stuck in my tiny bedroom while Mom and Charlie have taken over Granny’s room.”
“And you’re on the couch,” Finn points out. “We’re not the ones getting a raw deal here.”
“The cottage wasn’t built for so many people.”
When my father died and left me the property, I built the Grand Cabin as my dream home with six bedrooms, cathedral ceilings, and a kitchen that would make any chef weep.
But then Granny started forgetting things, leaving burners on, wandering outside in her nightgown.
I moved into her cottage instead and converted the cabin into a vacation rental to help with expenses.
Finn leans forward. “Do you hear that?”
We fall silent.
At first, there’s nothing but the fire’s crackle and an owl’s distant hoot. Then, carried on the night air, comes the distinct sound of… singing?
No, not singing.
Caterwauling.
“Is someone being murdered?” Finn asks, eyes wide.
“Worse,” Gabe winces. “Someone’s singing.”
“Very badly,” I add.
The singing grows louder, punctuated by what sounds like laughter. I stand up, peering into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight. A movement catches my eye—something white and fluffy, followed by a smaller, decidedly human shape.
The llama emerges from the treeline. Even from this distance, his expression can only be described as long-suffering.
Behind him stumbles the little blonde omega who’s renting the Grand Cabin, Melody. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are bright, and her movements are unsteady enough to suggest she’s had a few drinks.
We watch in collective amazement as Melody spins in a wobbly circle, nearly falls, rights herself with a loud laugh, and continues her journey.
Oxford follows at a safe distance, as if worried about being associated with her performance.
“Should we… help?” Finn asks.
Before anyone can respond, Melody spots us. She stops mid-verse, arm frozen in mid-gesture.
“Hello, bonfire people!” she calls, waving enthusiastically. She redirects her path toward us, Oxford reluctantly following.
“You won’t believe what I found,” she announces, reaching the edge of our circle. Before we can respond, she replies triumphantly, “A llama!”
“I see that,” I say, trying to conceal my laugh as I step forward to meet them. “Thank you for bringing him back.”
“We had an adventure,” she says, then stage-whispers to Oxford. “Didn’t we?”
He just stares back at her. His blue scarf—the one Granny knitted last winter—is slightly askew.
“He was watching me through the window,” she continues, approaching the fire. “Scared the life out of me at first. I thought he was a… I don’t know… a snow monster? Do you have those here? Snow monsters?”
Finn snorts into his cocoa. “Only the abominable kind.”
Her eyes widen. “There are abominable snow monsters in Snowflake Valley?”
“He’s joking,” I say quickly. “There are no snow monsters.”
“Oh.” She looks almost disappointed, then spots our mugs. “Is that hot cocoa? I love hot cocoa.”
Her enthusiasm is charming, especially how she pronounces “cocoa” as if it’s the most thrilling thing ever, while wearing reindeer pyjama pants and a green garland as a scarf.
“Would you like some?” I offer. “There’s plenty.”
“Yes, please,” she says, then adds with complete seriousness, “I’ve been walking a llama, and it’s thirsty work.”
Finn laughs outright at that, and even Gabe’s lips twitch.
“You want to sit with us by the fire?” Finn asks.
She considers this for approximately half a second. “Why not? It’s Christmas.”
“It’s December 14th,” Gabe points out.
“Christmas adjacent,” she corrects.
Oxford has wandered over to the barn, where he’s examining his hay with a critical eye.
Now that she’s closer, I catch her scent again—vanilla and clove, but warmer now, almost spicy. My alpha hindbrain perks up with interest, which I firmly ignore.
“So,” Melody says, “about that hot cocoa?”
I find myself laughing despite the absurdity of the situation.
“I’ll get you some. How do you feel about bourbon?”
Her face lights up. “Bourbon makes everything better.”