Chapter 7 Melody
Melody
After three hours of emergency spreadsheets and one conference call where I had to explain to Marcus how to use the “sort” function, I’m ready to strangle someone with my laptop charger.
Preferably Marcus.
The man has an MBA but can’t figure out how to alphabetize a column.
This is my vacation, damn it. V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N.
A magical time when normal people don’t work.
But here I am, hunched over my computer like some corporate goblin, hangover pounding against my temples while my boss three hundred miles away holds my sanity hostage.
“Melody, I need the Q4 projections recalculated using the new metrics,” Marcus demands through my phone speaker.
I close my eyes and count to five. “Those are with Janet. I sent them to her before I left.”
“Janet doesn’t organize things the way you do.”
Translation: Janet doesn’t take his verbal abuse with a smile.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I really need to step away from my computer. My eyes are crossing.”
The silence that follows tells me I’ve committed a cardinal sin in Marcus-land: prioritizing my human needs over his immediate demands.
“Fine. We’ll continue later.”
He hangs up without saying goodbye—classic Marcus move—conversation over when he’s done talking.
I slam my laptop closed with force.
I need fresh air.
I pull on my boots, coat, hat, and gloves, and burrow into layers of wool and down. The cold air slaps me in the face when I step outside, but it’s exactly what I need—a shock to the system that momentarily distracts from the anger and hangover still duking it out for dominance in my brain.
I walk along the street to the end of the road, following the same path I took last night. A car with a pine tree on its hood passes by, and the friendly passengers wave at me.
This is what I needed.
It’s beautiful out here. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that makes city dwellers like me uncomfortable at first, then addictive. No car horns, no neighbors arguing, no lights buzzing. Just snow, trees, and sky.
Perfect Pines comes into view at the end of the road.
To my right, several cars are parked in a makeshift lot. I follow the path deeper into the property. There’s the large fire pit where I lost all of my dignity last night, and a little farther behind it, the small white cottage, complete with lace curtains visible through frost-edged windows.
Behind it is a red barn, weathered but well-maintained, doors thrown open to reveal a warmly lit interior. And beyond that stretches the pine forest, dark green against the bright white snow, with trails winding between the trees where more customers are coming and going.
I make my way toward the barn, assuming that’s where I’ll find Oxford.
My hangover has receded to a dull ache, pushed aside by the combination of fresh air and exercise.
Maybe Oxford won’t recognize me.
Do llamas have good memories? Can they recognize intoxicated people they met only once?
These are questions they don’t cover in biology class.
As I approach the barn, a woman with a wild tangle of black hair emerges, wearing what are unmistakably pajama pants tucked into snow boots. She has a face that would be stunning if it weren’t set in a scowl that suggests the world has personally offended her in some sort of way.
“Hi,” I call out, raising a hand in what I hope is a friendly wave. “I’m looking for Oxford? I’m supposed to walk him.”
The scowl transforms into a grin so sudden it’s almost alarming.
“You must be Melody!” She strides toward me. “The twerking omega from last night.”
My face burns hot enough to melt the snow beneath my boots. “That would be me, yes.”
“Charlie Pine.” She extends a hand. “Everett’s sister. I missed the show last night, but I’ve heard all about it. You’re a legend already.”
I shake her hand, “Oh, no.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” She waves dismissively. “Own it. We need more dancing around here. This town is too uptight about everything.”
“I was pretty drunk,” I admit. “And I don’t usually… twerk in public.”
“Why not? It’s fun. Life’s too short for inhibitions.”
I blink at her bluntness. “You sound like you’ve given this some thought.”
Charlie shrugs. “When you’re a beta in a world that only pays attention to alphas and omegas, you learn to stop caring what people think.”
“Must be nice.” The words slip out before I can filter them.
“It is.” She studies me. “Let me guess. You’re a good little omega, aren’t you? One who follows all the rules?”
I bristle slightly. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“No? Do you apologize when someone bumps into you? Do you take on extra work because saying no feels impossible? Have you spent your life trying to be what everyone else wants you to be?”
Each word lands like a dart hitting a bullseye. I stare at her, startled by the accuracy.
“How did you—”
“I’ve met a lot of omegas.” She shrugs again. “Society puts you in a tighter box than the rest of us. Be sweet. Be accommodating. Be perfect. It’s all bullshit.”
“It’s not that simple,” I protest. “There are expectations—”
“Fuck that.”
I stare. This girl is sharp and unapologetic.
“I mean it,” she continues when I don’t respond. “Fuck. That. Why should you live your life according to someone else’s expectations?”
“Because that’s how the world works? Because I’d lose my job? Because my family would be disappointed?”
She snorts. “And how’s that working out for you? Are you happy?”
Am I happy? The answer should be simple, but my throat closes around it.
“I thought so,” Charlie says, not unkindly. “Look, I’m not saying burn your life down tomorrow. Just… start small. Say no to something. Wear the wrong thing. Twerk in public—on purpose this time.”
I laugh. “Is that your life philosophy? Do the opposite of what’s expected?”
“Mostly. It pisses people off sometimes, but I sleep well at night.” She grins again. “And I eat what I want. And I say what I think. And I never, ever pretend to be something I’m not.”
“My mom says an omega should be demure.”
“Fuck demure!” she shouts. “I dare you to be the opposite of demure. Try it. It’s liberating.”
There’s something undeniably attractive about her confidence. Not in a romantic sense, but in the way you’re drawn to people who seem to have figured out a secret you’re still struggling with.
It’s refreshing.
“Anyway,” she says, “Oxford is inside. He’s been giving Everett the cold shoulder all morning. I think he may prefer your company.”
“Really?” I feel absurdly pleased by this.
We head toward the barn together, and I find myself walking a little taller.
Charlie has this energy that makes me want to match—like if she can face the world with her pajama pants tucked into snow boots and not give a damn, maybe I can be a little less demure and a little more… Melody.