Chapter 5 Melody
Melody
Someone is trying to split my skull in half with a rusty axe.
I’m almost sure of it.
Each pulse of blood through my temples is another whack, and the light filtering through my eyelids might as well be laser beams.
I attempt to roll over and discover I’m wrapped tighter than a Christmas present; the blankets are tucked firmly around me like a straitjacket.
“Who wrapped me like an Egyptian mummy?” I mumble, struggling against my cotton prison.
There’s no way drunk me managed this level of bedmaking precision.
Drunk me can barely find the bed.
I pry one eye open and immediately regret it.
“Ughhhh,” I groan.
My mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died. I vaguely remember wine. Lots of wine. And dancing. Definitely some questionable dancing that I’m grateful no one witnessed.
Oh wait
Singing.
Good lord, I was singing!
With great effort, I extricate one arm from my blanket prison and press my palm against my forehead, as if I can physically hold my brain in place.
It doesn’t help.
Fragmented memories float through the murky swamp of my hangover.
Eyes watching me.
“Snow monster,” I mumble, then shake my head, instantly regretting the movement.
Not a snow monster. A llama. Oxford. With a scarf.
And then what?
I force both eyes open and take in my surroundings. I’m in the little bedroom I claimed for myself, tucked under the eaves.
But something’s off.
On the nightstand beside me sits a glass of water, two aspirin, and a book I definitely don’t recognize. I squint at the title: “The Idiot’s Guide to Not Freezing Your Butt Off.”
What the actual hell?
I struggle to a sitting position, fighting against my cocoon of blankets. My head spins, but I manage to down the aspirin and drain half the glass of water.
From downstairs, I hear voices: muffled conversation, the clatter of dishes, a laugh.
My heart leaps.
My family!
They made it after all!
Maybe Dad rallied, and they caught the next flight?
I picture Mom in the kitchen, Dad setting the table, Aunt Karen criticizing everyone’s technique. The thought is enough to propel me out of bed despite my hangover.
I stand too quickly. The room tilts alarmingly, and I grab the bedpost to steady myself.
Is that… chocolate I smell?
The aroma of rich chocolate wafts up, mingling with cedar and a hint of black pepper. I inhale deeply, savouring the sweet and spicy scent. My stomach gives a hopeful gurgle, momentarily overcoming its hangover protest.
I glance at myself in the mirror and wince.
My hair looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket, mascara has migrated south, and my eyes are so bloodshot they could star in a horror movie.
No time to fix it, though. My family has seen worse.
I tiptoe to the door and crack it open.
The voices don’t sound like my family at all.
“…too much cinnamon,” says a deep voice.
“There’s no such thing as too much cinnamon,” replies another, lighter male voice.
Strangers.
In my rental cabin.
Making breakfast.
They sound relaxed. Comfortable. Like they belong here. But they don’t. This is my Christmas tragedy palace.
Mine.
I need a weapon. Scanning the room, I spot my oversized purse slumped in the corner. Target acquired.
I shuffle-stumble across the room, drop to my knees, and dig frantically through the chaos that is my bag. Lipstick, tampons, three pens that probably don’t work, half a protein bar—there it is—my Alpha-Away spray.
Armed with my chemical deterrent, I creep down the stairs, wincing as each step makes my head throb. The stairs open directly into the great room with its soaring cathedral ceiling. From my position halfway down, I can see into the kitchen.
My jaw drops.
Two men are making themselves completely at home.
One is enormous, dark-haired, and radiating big D—I mean, alpha—energy, and is standing at the stove flipping pancakes. The other, slimmer, with auburn hair, wears black-rimmed glasses and is definitely a beta, arranges plates on the island.
Neither has noticed me yet.
“She’ll probably sleep until noon,” the alpha rumbles in a deep voice.
“After the amount of bourbon she put away? I’d be surprised if she wakes before dinner,” the other replies, lighter, amused.
I freeze mid-step. They’re talking about me. These strangers know me.
The glasses guy picks up his phone. “I’m telling Everett she’s still out cold. He was worried about her.”
Everett. The name triggers another memory fragment: blond hair, kind eyes, hot as hell.
That’s when I make my move for it.
Both men turn to stare at me: pancake giant with a spatula frozen mid-flip, glasses guy with his phone in hand.
I brandish my spray, my hands shaking. “Who are you people, and what are you doing in my house?”
Glasses guy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uh, good morning to you, too?”
“Step away from the pancakes,” I command, finger poised on the spray trigger.
I honestly don’t know why I say that. It’s not like the pancakes are in any danger, but I’m improvising.
Pancake giant looks down at the spatula in his hand, then back at me. His expression remains neutral, but I swear there’s amusement in his eyes.
“You invited us,” he says simply.
I blink. “I did what now?”
“Last night,” glasses guy supplies, setting down his phone carefully like I’m a bomb that might detonate.
“After the bonfire. You insisted we stay because, and I quote, ‘criminal’ that we were sleeping in Everett’s tiny room while there were ‘five whole empty bedrooms just sitting here being lonely.’”
I lower the spray slightly, confusion temporarily overriding panic. “I don’t remember that.”
“I bet you don’t remember trying to teach Everett how to twerk, but that happened, too,” glasses Guy says with a grin.
My face instantly combusts. “I did not.”
“You did,” they confirm in unison.
The glasses beta stands, offering his hand. “Finnigan. But everyone calls me Finn. And this mountain is Gabe.”
Gabe nods curtly, his green eyes assessing me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. His scent is potent—cedar and black pepper, with something darker underneath, like chocolate. It’s… not unpleasant.
“Melody,” I say, shaking Finn’s hand. “Melody Winters.”
“We know,” Finn smiles. “You told us. Several times. Along with your life story and a detailed critique of your boss.”
I wince.
“You were…” he searches for a diplomatic word, “‘festive.’”
“I remember the llama,” I say cautiously. “Oxford. And walking him home.”
“Yes!” Finn says brightly. “You rescued him. Our hero.”
I frown, trying to piece it together. “And there was a bonfire. And hot cocoa.”
“With bourbon,” Finn adds helpfully. “Quite a lot of bourbon.”
Gabe shoots him a look, but Finn just shrugs.
“What? It was bourbon-heavy. That’s just factual.”
I move farther into the kitchen, still keeping a safe distance. “So I, what, invited two strangers to stay in my rental cabin while drunk? That doesn’t sound like me.”
And then it comes back… all of it.
The bonfire. Hot cocoa with bourbon. Laughing with these strangers. And then… something about roommates?
“Oh god,” I groan. “I was dancing, wasn’t I? In the snow? And singing? Please tell me I wasn’t singing.”
Finn presses his lips together, clearly suppressing a laugh. “I would never tell you that you were belting ‘Santa Baby’ while attempting some kind of interpretive dancing.”
I close my eyes in mortification.
“You were enthusiastic,” Gabe offers in what I think is meant to be a comforting tone.
“Oh god,” I moan, sinking onto a kitchen stool. “Please tell me I didn’t do anything else embarrassing.”
The look they exchange tells me everything I don’t want to know.
“Define ‘embarrassing,’” Finn hedges.
I drop my head into my hands. “Just kill me now.”
“We don’t have to stay if you’re uncomfortable,” Finn says, “You were very insistent about it last night, being Christmas and something about nobody coming and how you were going to be pathetically alone unless we took pity on you.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. “I said all that?”
Gabe clears his throat. “You were upset.”
“Distraught,” Finn clarifies. “There were tears. And you kept talking about color-coded activity schedules and themed pajamas.”
I had spilled my guts to strangers. My family drama, my loneliness, probably my entire sad life story.
“And we brought you home and tucked you in,” Finn continues. “You insisted that you wanted to know how it felt to be a canned sardine.”
The way I’d been wrapped tightly in blankets suddenly makes sense, the aspirin and water too.
“You also insisted I read to you, but you passed out after the first phrase.”
I groan again and finally set down the spray canister on the counter, accepting that these men aren’t home invaders but… guests? Roommates? I don’t know what to call them.
“So you’re telling me I drunkenly invited you all to stay in my rental cabin for two weeks, and you accepted?”
Finn shrugs. “The cottage is packed. Everett’s mom and sister are visiting because his grandma’s in the hospital, so he’s sleeping on the couch. We were crammed into his tiny bedroom, and this place has six bedrooms.”
“It was a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Gabe says, turning back to the stove and resuming his pancake flipping.
“I don’t usually… I mean, I’m not the kind of person who…”
“Invites strangers to move in? " We figured,” Finn says kindly, “but you seemed really sad about being alone for Christmas. And we really were uncomfortable in that tiny room.”
Before I can ponder this further, my phone rings from somewhere in the living room.
I follow the sound, digging it out from under a sofa cushion. The number flashing on the screen isn’t saved.
I answer, voice cautious but polite. “Hello?”
A familiar, irritated voice snaps back at me. “Melody, thank god. I need the Henderson file, and I can’t find it anywhere.”
It’s Marcus. Of course, it’s Marcus. How did he even get this number?
“It’s in the blue folder labeled ‘Henderson,’ sir. On your desk. Left-hand corner.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “The one I put there before I left.”
“It’s not—” There’s a pause, some shuffling. “Never mind. I found it. While you’re on the line, I need you to look up some numbers for me.”
“Sir, this is my personal phone. I’m on vacation. Remember? Two weeks off for Christmas?” I say this gently, though my fingers tighten around the phone.
“This will just take a minute,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken.
I turn away, feeling two pairs of eyes watching me from the kitchen. For once, I don’t immediately cave. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ashcroft, but I’m not at my computer. I can send you the presentation in a few minutes, but Janet from HR is covering my desk—she should be able to assist you going forward.”
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. Finally, he says, “Fine. But I may need to call you for emergencies.”
“Of course,” I reply automatically, hating myself a little for not drawing a firmer boundary. “Have a good day, sir.”
When I hang up, I turn to find Gabe and Finn watching me with identical expressions of distaste.
“That’s the boss you were ranting about?” Finn asks.
I nod, embarrassed. “Marcus Ashcroft. CEO of Ashcroft Media.”
“You called him the ‘alpha-hole boss from hell’ last night,” Gabe says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Did I?” I can’t help the small smile that forms. “Well, not inaccurate.”
“Why do you work for him?” Gabe’s question is direct, his gaze unwavering.
The smile fades from my face. “My aunt pulled strings to get me the job. It was a big opportunity. Executive assistant to the CEO…” I trail off, hearing how hollow the explanation sounds.
“But you hate it,” Finn observes, not unkindly.
“It’s complicated.”
He slides a mug of coffee toward me. “Cream? Sugar? A new job?”
“All of the above,” I mumble, accepting the mug gratefully.
Finn laughs and adds cream and sugar to my coffee.
I take a sip. It’s perfect.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For the coffee. And for… not being serial killers, I guess.”
Gabe makes a sound that might be a chuckle. “Low bar.”
Finn pats my arm sympathetically. “Eat something. You’ll feel more human.”
Gabe places a plate in front of me. Three perfect pancakes stacked high, with a pat of butter melting on top.
“There’s syrup and berries,” he says, gesturing to small bowls on the counter. He’s oddly gentle for someone who looks like he could bench-press a refrigerator.
“Why are you being nice to me? I threatened you with Alpha-Away.”
Finn snorts into his coffee. “That’s not Alpha-Away. It’s your dry shampoo.”
I look down at the canister. Sure enough, the label reads “Fresh Start Dry Shampoo: For Hair Emergencies.”
“Oh,” I say weakly. “Well, in my defense, I was prepared to make your hair very, very fresh.”
This elicits a deep, rumbling laugh from Gabe.
Perhaps having unexpected roommates is precisely what I need—a fresh perspective.