Chapter 6 Finn
Finn
“You look ridiculous,” Gabe says, watching me struggle to zip up my third layer.
I glare at him through the narrow gap between my pompon hat and the thick wool scarf wound tightly around my neck.
“It’s freezing outside,” I mumble through the wool.
Gabe leans against the doorframe, looking unfairly comfortable in just a flannel shirt and an unzipped winter jacket.
The man runs hotter than a furnace, which makes him perfect for cuddling, but insufferable during arguments about proper winter attire.
“You’re wearing electric socks.” He points to my feet, where the battery packs peek out from my boots.
“And I’m still cold. That’s how cold it is.”
I tug on a second pair of gloves over my first pair. My fingers are now so thick that they’re mostly useless.
Exactly as planned.
“You won’t be able to move.” There’s amusement in his voice, the kind that usually means he’s caught on to my game.
“That’s a shame.” I waddle toward him, arms slightly extended from my sides because the layers won’t let me lay them flat.
Gabe’s eyes narrow. “You’re not getting out of helping.”
“I’m from Sunny Cove. My biceps are strictly decorative.” I have a PhD in literature, for God’s sake, not lumberjacking.
I make a show of bending down to adjust my boot, nearly toppling over in the process. From the kitchen counter, where she’s nursing her coffee and typing furiously on her laptop, Melody stifles a laugh.
“Jesus Christ,” Gabe mutters. “You’re going to roll down the mountain.”
“I’m dressing for the weather,” I say. “Some of us weren’t raised in the tundra.”
Melody snorts, then winces at the movement.
Poor thing. Bourbon plus wine equals the hangover from hell.
I attempt to adjust my hat, but my arms remain stubbornly extended. “I’m physically incapable of holding an axe now. Tragic.”
“Coward.”
“Strategic,” I correct. “I’ll supervise from a safe distance, preferably near a fire.”
Gabe gives me that look—the one that says I’m insufferable but loves me, anyway. It’s a look I never tire of, even after three years.
“At least I brought my contacts today,” I say, counting small victories. “Another reason to hate the cold—they fog up my glasses every time I breathe. One minute I can see, the next I’m legally blind with two tiny ice rinks attached to my face.”
Melody laughs from her spot at the counter, then immediately presses a hand to her temple with a groan.
“Karma,” I tell her with a sympathetic wince. “That’s what happens when you try to out-drink Everett’s special cocoa.”
“I wasn’t trying to out-drink anyone,” she mumbles. “I was trying to forget that my family had abandoned me for Christmas.”
“Well, now you have us,” I chirp. “One that forces its members into manual labor in subzero temperatures.”
“So, um, what’s happening today?”
She looks like she’s trying very hard to be casual, even though she’s sharing her rental cabin with two strange men she drunkenly invited to stay.
“There’s a local Christmas tree crisis. Apparently, the regular vendor retired with no notice, and the town has been unable to find another supplier with enough stock so close to Christmas—so now the tree-less masses of Snowflake Valley are descending on poor Everett, who is forced to open and cater to those hoping to get their hands on dying vegetation they’ll display for two weeks, then discard.
Hence why we’re here to help or supervise. ”
Melody’s lips twitch. “You’re really selling the Christmas spirit.”
“I contain multitudes, oh Melody,” I say, seizing the opportunity. “Don’t forget, you promised to walk Oxford today.”
Her brow furrowed. “I did?”
“Last night,” I nod solemnly. “You were very insistent. Something about bonding with your spirit animal.”
Gabe nudges me with an elbow. I’ve known the man long enough to recognize his “you’re pushing it” nudge from his “that’s funny, but I won’t admit it” nudge.
This is definitely the former.
“I don’t recall that,” Melody says slowly, her cheeks flaming in that cute way again. “But sure, OK. I’ll come by once I finish this.”
I adjust my scarf, which is threatening to cut off my brain’s circulation. “Okay, don’t forget, technically you said, and these are your exact words, ‘that llama is my soul mate, and I would die for him.’”
What I’m not telling her is that after her confessional session, she started noticing us, and I mean really noticing us.
It started subtly.
She kept inching closer to Gabe on the log bench. Then she’d drift toward Everett when he spoke. At one point, she actually leaned over and sniffed—not subtly—at Everett’s neck, then declared he smelled “like Christmas morning, but sexier.”
Gabe got the same treatment. She told him he smelled like “a chocolate forest, where very hot, brooding men chop wood shirtless.” Her words, not mine, though I can’t say I disagree.
I didn’t get sniffed, which tracks.
As a beta, my subtle scent of old books and freshly ground nutmeg fails to trigger her omega response. But I did get a slurred declaration that my eyes were like twinkling stars and a request to “read me to sleep with your voice that sounds like velvet.” Again, her words.
I’ve been with Gabe long enough to read the minuscule changes in his expression that most people miss. The slight dilation of his pupils when Melody handed him her empty mug last night. The way he and Everett both inhaled deeply when she laughed.
There might be something here.
Gabe clears his throat. “We should get going. Everett’s waiting.”
I’m getting ahead of myself, of course.
One drunken night doesn’t mean she’s our missing piece. But I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and right now they’re telling me Melody might be precisely what we need.
As we step outside, the cold is actually refreshing.
I’ll never admit it, but I was starting to sweat under my 17 layers. I shoot one last glance back at Melody, who’s watching us from the kitchen counter.
“Wish us luck!” I call to her. “If I don’t return, tell my collection of first editions I loved them!”
She laughs, “I’ll make sure Oxford walks past your frozen body with the appropriate amount of judgment.”
Gabe guides me down the steps with a hand at my lower back—necessary given my limited mobility.
Yes, I may look like a marshmallow, but at least I make a marshmallow look good.
Gabe straddles the snowmobile at the bottom of the stairs, with the same easy confidence he does everything else, turning to look at me with barely concealed amusement.
“You coming?”
“On that death trap?” I waddle toward it, my layers making each step a negotiation. “There’s no seatbelt. No airbag. Not even doors.”
“We drove back on it last night,” he points out.
“Last night I had bourbon in my belly.”
“Just waddle over and fall on,” Gabe suggests, his eyes crinkling. The man finds my suffering entertaining.
I sigh dramatically. “I’m going to die on this thing, and my tombstone will read, ‘He was right about the cold all along.’”
I manage to swing my leg over and settle behind Gabe. My layers make it impossible to wrap my arms fully around his waist, so I’m forced to grip the sides of his jacket instead.
“Ready?” he asks, the engine rumbling to life beneath us.
“No,” I reply honestly, but tighten my grip anyway.
As we pull away from the cabin, I glance back one more time. Melody stands at the window, coffee mug in hand, watching us go.
I give her a ridiculous wave with my puffy gloved hand, nearly unbalancing myself in the process. She smiles and waves back.
Oscar Wilde once wrote that “to expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect.” Well, I’m thoroughly modern, and I’m definitely experiencing something unexpected this holiday season.