Chapter 9 Gabe
Gabe
The ax bites into pine with a satisfying thunk.
Four hours in, and my hands have settled into the rhythm—swing, strike, pull back, repeat. My flannel sticks to my back with sweat despite the cold, a damp reminder that real work generates heat.
This is honest work. Simple.
Unlike the numbers game I play in the city, where everything’s hidden behind politeness and corporate jargon.
Here, you either cut the tree or you don’t.
No meetings to discuss the feasibility of cutting the tree. No PowerPoints about optimal tree-cutting strategies.
Just me, the ax, and wood that either yields or doesn’t.
I pull the ax free and position for another strike. The muscles in my back stretch pleasantly, reminding me I’ve been neglecting my usual workout routine, too many late nights at the office staring at spreadsheets, too many mornings rushing out without hitting the gym.
“Look at that sexy beast!” Finn exclaims.
He’s perched on a stump, clutching a thermos of what I’m guessing is hot chocolate. He’s finally shed at least three of his layers, down to a merely ridiculous five or six. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and his eyes sparkle with joy.
I grunt in response and swing again.
“Very articulate,” he calls. “I’m swooning.”
I hide my smile by ducking my head. Three years together, and he still makes my heart swell with these small moments of playfulness. The city hasn’t changed that, at least.
“Don’t you have trees to supervise?” I ask, wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve.
“I am supervising. Very thoroughly. Ten out of ten for form, by the way. Your gluteal muscles are particularly engaged in this activity.”
I roll my eyes and get back to work.
Finn attempted to help earlier; I’ll give him credit for that.
He managed about fifteen minutes of actual labor before declaring himself “physically incapable of continued lumberjacking” and collapsing dramatically onto the nearest stump.
Now he’s appointed himself official morale officer, which apparently involves making commentary about my ass and occasionally passing out snacks and coffee.
“Break?” Everett approaches, offering me a bottle of water. His face is flushed from exertion, blond hair dark with sweat at the temples.
Unlike Finn, Everett works as hard as I do, matching me swing for swing.
I nod and take the bottle, draining half in one go. The water is cold enough to hurt my teeth, but it feels good as it washes down my parched throat.
“How many more of these?” I ask, knowing this is just day one. My shoulders already ache, a sign that tomorrow will be worse.
Everett winces, squinting at the forest around us. “Mayor’s got a lottery system going, staggering the crowds over the next two weeks. Thank God. Otherwise, we’d have the entire valley descending at once.”
“Smart,” I say, rolling my shoulders to loosen them.
Snowflake Valley takes Christmas seriously.
I remember from growing up here that the town practically shuts down if the holiday lights aren’t perfectly synchronized.
“At least the physical labor’s good,” I say, glancing down at my body. “Won’t have to worry about holiday weight gain.”
Everett laughs, the sound carrying across the clearing. “When did you become so vain?”
“City living,” I say with a shrug.
It’s more than that, though. The city never felt right to me. Too crowded, too loud, too many people packed into spaces that were never meant to hold that many bodies. I went for the job, stayed for Finn. If it weren’t for him, I’d have been back in Snowflake Valley years ago.
Finn walks by, and I pull him close with one arm, enjoying the way he automatically leans into me despite his protests about my sweatiness. It’s these small, unconscious moments that make it all worth it.
“You’re disgusting,” he complains, but makes no move to pull away. “I can literally see steam rising off you.”
“You love it,” I murmur into his hair.
“I tolerate it because you’re pretty,” he counters, but his hand comes up to rest on my chest, just over my heart.
“Back to work,” Everett says with a smile, shaking his head, picking up his ax again. “That Douglas fir next. It’s massive, perfect for the lighting ceremony in town square. The Mayor has been up my ass about the perfect tree for days.”
I nod and follow, leaving Finn to his “supervisory” role.
We’re old school about this; axes, not chainsaws.
Partly tradition, partly because the whine of a chainsaw ruins the peace of the forest. There’s something meditative about the swing-thunk-pull rhythm, the way your breath syncs with your movements.
The city has nothing like this—everything there is rush, noise, and artificial urgency.
I position myself on the opposite side of the trunk from Everett. We don’t need to talk to coordinate; we’ve been doing this since we were teenagers: swing, thunk, pull. The tree’s fate is sealed with each bite of the blade.
That’s when I smell her.
Warm vanilla and cloves, impossibly distinct even out here among the pine and snow and sweat. My ax freezes mid-swing. I keep my eyes fixed on the tree, but every other sense is suddenly, violently attuned to that scent.
Melody.
I force myself to complete the swing, but I’m acutely aware of her presence now. My nostrils flare, drawing in more of that intoxicating scent. My pulse quickens, and something primal stirs in my chest.
I shouldn’t feel this way.
I have Finn.
I love Finn.
This immediate, visceral reaction to an omega I barely know is… It’s primitive. Biological. The alpha in me is responding to pheromones.
Nothing more.
I risk a glance at Everett and see him falter too, nostrils flaring slightly. His rhythm breaks for just a moment before he recovers. His eyes meet mine, and I see my own reaction mirrored there: awareness and desire.
“Her smell is strong,” he says quietly, his voice tight with restraint.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Very potent,” he murmurs, then resumes his swing with more force than necessary.
I turn slightly, just enough to see without being obvious.
They’re at the edge of the clearing: Finn, Melody, and that ridiculous llama with its scarf.
Finn is gesturing animatedly, probably telling a story that makes Melody laugh.
The llama stands to the side, watching with what looks like judgment in its eyes.
Finn doesn’t smell her the way we do. As a beta, he’s less attuned to the particular chemistry that makes an omega’s scent so compelling to an alpha.
I’ve always been grateful for that, because it means our relationship exists beyond biological imperatives.
We chose each other, no pheromones involved.
But now, with Melody’s scent clouding my senses, making my hands tighten around the ax handle until my knuckles turn white, I’m not sure what to think.
“Have you ever met an omega with a scent that strong?” Everett asks, his voice barely audible.
I shake my head. “And she has to be on suppressants for work.”
Omegas joining the workforce are obligated to take suppressants; Melody’s scent should therefore be muted, barely detectable. Instead, it’s like she’s standing right next to me, even from across the clearing. I can practically taste her on my tongue.
“We should keep an eye on her,” Everett says, his protective instincts clearly kicking in. “With all these alphas around, it could be dangerous.”
He’s right. An omega with a scent that potent could attract unwanted attention, especially from alphas who aren’t as… controlled. I scan the clearing, suddenly tense, my grip on the ax shifting from tool to potential weapon.
The other workers, at least four of them alphas, continue their tasks without pause. No flared nostrils, no distracted glances. They haven’t noticed her at all.
“They don’t smell her,” I say, confused.
Everett follows my gaze, his brow furrowed. “That’s not possible.”
But it’s true. The locals chat and work, oblivious to the scent that’s got both of us vibrating with awareness. One alpha even walks past her without so much as a glance in her direction.
And then it hits me.
The realization collides with me with enough force I actually step back. The ax hangs limply at my side.
Scent-match.
When an alpha and an omega are perfectly compatible, their scents intensify, but only for each other. It’s nature’s way of identifying an ideal mate.
Or in this case, mates. Plural.
Because Everett is having the same reaction I am.
“Everett,” I say, my voice low and strained. “She’s our scent-match.”
His ax stops mid-swing. He turns to me, eyes wide, pupils dilated. We stare at each other for a long moment; the implications hanging in the air between us.
This isn’t just an attraction. It’s not just pheromones. It’s something fated.
Finn.
He’s everything to me. My partner, my balance, the reason I tolerate the city and the job. But this pull toward Melody feels just as fundamental, just as necessary. Not replacing what I have with Finn, but complementing it.
“If she’s our scent-match, she’ll figure it out,” Everett says, his eyes drifting back to where she stands with Finn.
“She definitely could smell us last night,” I say, remembering how she’d practically climbed into our laps, sniffing at our necks and declaring we smelled like Christmas and forests. I’d attributed it to the bourbon, but now…
The way her vanilla-clove scent calls to us, our scents will call to her. If not now, then soon.
“What do we do?” I ask. I’m not used to feeling unsure, not about important things.
Everett’s quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on Melody. “We get to know her. We let her get to know us. And we see what happens.” He pauses, a small smile playing at his lips. “Although I’m feeling quite jealous about your sleeping arrangements now.”
Sensible. Respectful. But the alpha in me bristles at the thought of waiting, of being patient when every instinct is screaming to go to her, to make sure she’s safe, to make sure she knows she’s ours.
“Okay,” I agree, forcing my breathing to steady.
Everett nods once, then returns to the tree. His swings are more forceful now, driven by the same restless energy that’s coursing through me.
I join him, channeling everything into the work. Swing. Thunk. Pull. The rhythm grounds me, gives me something to focus on besides the vanilla-clove scent that has imprinted itself on my consciousness.
Across the clearing, Finn says something that makes Melody laugh. The sound carries to us, clear and bright in the cold air. Everett and I both pause, just for a heartbeat, before resuming our work with renewed intensity.
I’ll have to tell Finn.
This is going to be complicated.
The tree creaks, warning us it’s nearly ready to fall. We step back in unison, watching as it sways slightly.
“Timber,” Everett calls, his voice carrying across the clearing.
The tree falls with a whoosh of displaced air and a muted thud as it hits the snow. Clean cut, perfect fall. If only everything else in life could be so straightforward.
“That was awesome!” Finn’s voice rings out. He’s leading Melody and Oxford toward us, his face lit with excitement. “Very rugged and masculine. Right, Melody?”
She’s smiling, but as they get closer, I see her nostrils flare slightly. Her pupils dilate. Her steps falter, almost imperceptibly.
Her eyes meet mine, then Everett’s, then back to mine.
“Very impressive,” she says, her cheeks reddening. “Um, I wanted to apologize to you, Everett, for being such a drunk mess last night.”
“No apology needed,” Everett says, his voice gentle. “It was a memorable introduction. Besides, you brought back Oxford.”
Finn walks over to me, and I wrap an arm around his shoulders automatically, but I’m acutely aware of Melody watching. There’s no judgment in her gaze, just curiosity and something like… longing?
“I’m going to take Oxford back to the barn,” she says suddenly. “He stole my scarf, and I’m getting cold.”
The llama gives her what can only be described as an eye roll.
“Right,” Everett says. “We should get back to work, anyway.”
“See you back at the cabin?” Finn asks her.
She nods, her eyes flicking between Everett and me once more before she turns to go. I watch her leave, the red scarf around the llama’s neck a bright spot of color against the white and green landscape.
“One more hour,” Everett says, checking his watch. “Then we call it a day.”
I nod, already dreading going back to the cabin, where Melody’s scent will be inescapable. But also, if I’m honest with myself, I’m looking forward to it in a way that makes guilt settle heavily in my stomach.
“One more hour,” I agree, picking up my ax.
Finn wanders back to his stump, and Everett and I select the next tree. We work in silence, but the air between us is charged with the knowledge that something fundamental has shifted today.
One thing’s sure: Christmas in Snowflake Valley just got a lot more complicated.