Chapter 12 Melody
Melody
Iroll over with a groan, expecting the familiar panic of oversleeping on a workday, but then remember, I’m on vacation.
Or at least, I’m supposed to be.
“Holy moly cannoli,” I mutter, sitting bolt upright. I never sleep past seven. Ever. Not even on weekends.
Well, except for college. Everyone sleeps in when they’re in college.
My phone sits on the nightstand, and I reach for it automatically. Three missed calls from Marcus. Two voicemails. Four texts.
I hover my finger over the callback button, then pause.
Yesterday’s conversation with Charlie echoes in my mind. What was it she said?
“Fuck demure.”
Simple. Elegant. Revolutionary.
I look at the missed calls again. Then, with a deliberate slowness that feels almost ceremonial, I set the phone back on the nightstand.
Face down.
“Not today, Satan,” I tell the phone. “Not today.”
The act of rebellion sends a small thrill through me, like I’ve just shoplifted a candy bar or jaywalked in front of a cop. It’s ridiculous how something so small feels so monumental, but there it is: I, Melody Winters, am ignoring my boss’s calls.
I stretch luxuriously. No urgent emails. No Marcus breathing down my neck. No meetings that should have been emails. Just me and my vacation.
I pull on my comfiest underwear, the granny kind no one but me will ever see, and pair them with comfy sweatpants and an oversized sweater.
The cabin is quiet as I pad downstairs. No sign of Gabe or Finn, but there’s a folded note on the counter with my name scrawled across it in elegant handwriting.
Melody,
Gone to help Everett with tree-pocalypse. Gabe made you extra pancakes. Don’t forget to walk Oxford and visit us!
—Finn
P.S. I made you extra coffee.
I smile at their kindness. “Bless you, Finnigan, and your superb coffee-making skills.”
My mind drifts to the men as I nibble on a cold pancake. Finn is easy to be around with his humor and his kindness.
Gabe and Everett, though… It’s those alpha pheromones.
Has to be.
Both of them smell like everything I’ve ever wanted rolled into one delicious package.
“They’re just men. Very attractive, very nice-smelling men who probably think you’re a disaster.”
I’m just lonely, that’s all.
Missing my family.
Projecting my disappointment onto the nearest available targets.
I take out my color-coded activity list, smoothing the creases. Well, my family isn’t here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still do the activities.
“It’s time to be an independent omega who doesn’t need family or a job to validate her existence.”
Today was supposed to be the “Family Gingerbread House Competition.” The thought of doing it alone seems pathetic, but the alternative, sitting around feeling sorry for myself, seems worse.
“Gingerbread house it is,” I declare.
And I’ve always wanted to make one of those Instagram-worthy gingerbread houses: the kind with perfect icing that looks like freshly fallen snow, with candy cane columns and gumdrop pathways.
How hard could it be?
I discover all the supplies in one of my many bags—pre-made gingerbread pieces (because I’m not a masochist), icing, and enough candy to put a five-year-old in a sugar coma.
The kit promises “Easy Assembly! Fun for All Ages!”
Two hours later, I’m convinced the kit was designed by someone who hates joy.
The kitchen is a mess. Gingerbread pieces litter the counter. My fingers are sticky with icing that has the structural integrity of wet tissue paper. And the house, if you can call it that, looks like it survived a category five hurricane and is one strong breeze away from total collapse.
One wall keeps sliding off. The roof refuses to stay on. And the whole thing leans to one side like the Tower of Pisa’s uglier, cookie-based cousin.
“Why won’t you just stay together?” I groan at it, holding two walls in place while waiting for the icing to set.
The moment I let go, the front wall slides off again, taking half the roof with it.
I glare at the gingerbread wreckage. The pictures on the box made it look so easy. “Put icing on edges, hold for thirty seconds, release.” What they didn’t mention was that those thirty seconds are apparently just long enough to give you false hope before everything falls apart.
Half the candy has been eaten directly from the package because, as it turns out, constructing a gingerbread house alone is surprisingly stressful.
“That’s it,” I announce to the empty kitchen. “I need reinforcements.”
I’m out of candy canes, low on icing sugar, and my patience has run out.
A trip to town seems in order. Fresh air might clear my head, and I can stock up on supplies and start over again.
I pull on my boots and coat and head out into the snow, purposely leaving my phone on the nightstand. The air is crisp, so cold it burns a little with each breath, but it feels cleansing somehow.
Snowflake Valley’s main street is a Christmas dream. Storefronts are draped with twinkling lights, wreaths on every door, and soft music playing from speakers mounted on lampposts. People mill about, shopping bags in hand, greeting each other with the easy familiarity of small-town life.
A woman with silver-streaked hair wearing a white jacket waves as she passes. “Hello there, dear! Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
I blink in surprise. I didn’t even make eye contact with her. In the city, that would be an invitation for someone to try to sell you something, or worse.
“Um, yes. It’s lovely,” I manage to reply before she passes.
I stop to admire a window display of handcrafted ornaments, only to remember that breakfast was just that single cold pancake hours ago, and my gingerbread disaster consumed the rest of my morning.
I spot Mistletoe Bakery across the street, its windows fogged with condensation from the warmth inside. A hand-painted sign advertises “Candy Cane Scones—Limited Time Only!” My stomach rumbles in enthusiastic approval.
Icing sugar can wait.
Scones are clearly the priority here.
As soon as I walk in, I’m enveloped in a cloud of buttery, sugary warmth. Christmas music plays softly overhead, something jazzy and low-key. The bakery smells like heaven distilled into desserts: vanilla, cinnamon, chocolate, and something minty, which must be those candy-cane scones.
Glass cases display rows of pastries, each looking more delicious than the last. Gingerbread cookies stand at perfect attention, their icing details immaculate and, I note with a touch of bitterness, completely intact.
“Be with you in just a minute!” calls a harried voice from somewhere in the back.
“No rush,” I call back, content to breathe in the intoxicating aromas while I wait.
The candy cane scones catch my eye immediately, swirled red and white with a glossy sugar glaze that makes my mouth water.
Beside them sit plump cinnamon rolls dripping with icing, chocolate croissants with their flaky layers visible even through the glass, and an array of cookies decorated with such precision they look too perfect to eat.
I narrow my eyes at a tray of gingerbread houses: miniature versions, but still standing tall and proud without a hint of structural failure.
A plump woman emerges from the back room, wiping her hands on her apron. Her curly hair is pulled back in a messy bun with several strands escaping, and dark circles under her eyes suggest she hasn’t slept properly in days. Despite this, her smile is genuine as she approaches the counter.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “Holiday rush is no joke. What can I get for you today?”
“One of those candy cane scones, please,” I say, pointing to the display. “And a cup of Reindeer Fuel, extra whipped cream. And maybe your secret for making icing that actually works.”
She laughs, the sound brightening her tired face. “That last one’s gonna cost you extra.” She moves to pour the coffee. “You visiting? Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
“Just here for the holidays. I rented the Grand Cabin at Perfect Pines.”
Her eyes light up with recognition. “Oh! You’re Everett’s guest.” She winks conspiratorially. “Some customers were talking about you yesterday. Something about the mayor and a llama?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Does everyone know about that?”
“Small town, honey. News travels faster than Santa on Christmas Eve.” She sets my coffee and scone on the counter. “And the story’s been improving with each retelling. By dinnertime, you’ll have delivered a twenty-minute omega manifesto while the llama performed an interpretive dance.”
I laugh.
“I’m Beatrice, by the way. Most folks call me Bea.”
“Melody.” I take a bite of the scone and nearly moan. The pastry is buttery and tender, with ribbons of peppermint running through it that complement rather than overwhelm. “Oh my god. This is amazing.”
“Family recipe,” Bea beams.
A timer rings shrilly from the back room, and Bea’s smile drops. “Excuse me a sec.”
She rushes to the back, and I hear muffled curses followed by the clatter of a baking sheet. When she returns, her expression is frazzled, and a new streak of flour is decorating her forehead.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Almost burned another batch.” She sighs, pushing a stray curl from her face. “Third time today. Too many orders, not enough hands. My assistant quit last month. She moved to Spring Blossom for some fancy bank job, and I haven’t found a replacement.”
I glance around the empty bakery. “Slow day?”
“First lull I’ve had since six this morning.
” She gestures to a mountain of papers peeking out from under the counter.
“I’ve got three special orders to finish by tomorrow, inventory to count, and paperwork that’s piling up faster than snow in January.
” She pauses. “Sorry, didn’t mean to dump all that on you. Holiday stress talking.”
I look closer at the paperwork: order forms, invoices, and delivery schedules, all in complete disarray.
My fingers literally twitch to organize them.
This is the kind of chaos I excel at taming.
“I could help,” I offer. “With the paperwork, at least. I’m an executive assistant back home. Organization is kind of my superpower.”
Bea looks at me like I’ve just offered her a winning lottery ticket. “Are you serious? But you’re on vacation.”
I shrug, taking another bite of the heavenly scone. “Some people relax by lying on beaches. I relax by organizing chaos into neat little spreadsheets.” I tap the stack of papers. “Plus, I’ve got nothing but time and a failed gingerbread house waiting for me back at the cabin.”
“I couldn’t ask you to—”
“You’re not asking, I’m offering. On one condition.”
“Name it.”
I point to the scones. “Payment in pastries.”
Bea throws her head back and laughs, the sound full and genuine. “Deal.” She extends her hand, which I shake without hesitation. “But I insist on adding coffee to your compensation package.”
“You drive a hard bargain, but I accept.”
Just like that, my afternoon plans shift from gingerbread construction to spreadsheet creation. Bea clears a small table in the corner for me, bringing over the stack of papers and her ancient laptop.
“This thing moves slower than molasses in January,” she apologizes as the computer wheezes to life. “I’m not exactly tech-savvy.”
“I’ve worked with worse,” I assure her, already sorting the papers into neat piles by category.
There’s something deeply satisfying about organizing inventory for a small bakery versus preparing quarterly reports for Marcus.
Here, each number represents something tangible: bags of flour, cartons of eggs, pounds of butter.
And when I explain the new filing system to Bea, her gratitude is genuine, not the obligatory “good job” that Marcus might toss my way if I’m lucky.
By late afternoon, I’ve created a new inventory tracking system, streamlined the order forms, and set up a simple spreadsheet on Bea’s laptop to track daily sales. There’s still plenty to do, but at least it’s a start.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Bea says, refilling my coffee mug for the fourth time. The bakery has closed for the day, and we’re alone in the cozy space. “I haven’t seen the top of that desk in weeks.”
“Happy to help.” And I am, I realize. Genuinely happy to use my skills for someone who actually appreciates them. “Besides, I’m pretty sure you saved me from a gingerbread-related breakdown.”
“Speaking of which,” Bea says, disappearing into the back. She returns with a small box. “For your construction project. Add some graham crackers instead of gingerbread. Much more stable. And some of my special royal icing—the kind that actually works.”
I accept the box, touched by her thoughtfulness. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. You’ve done more in one afternoon than I could have managed in a week.” She hesitates, fidgeting with her apron. “Actually, I’ve been thinking…”
“Yes?”
“Any chance you’d consider a job? Here, I mean. In the bakery.”
I blink in surprise. “You mean like a permanent position?”
“I know it’s crazy. You’re just visiting, and you probably have a fancy job back home, but…” She gestures to the newly organized desk. “You’re exactly what this place needs. Someone who knows how to keep things running smoothly.”
“That’s really flattering, but I’m only here for the holidays.”
“Right, of course.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Just thought I’d ask.”
But as I drive back to Perfect Pines with Bea’s box of graham crackers and icing, the offer lingers in my mind. A job at a small-town bakery. Regular hours. Appreciation for my work. The scent of chocolate and peppermint surrounding me, instead of Marcus’s expensive cologne.
It’s a ridiculous thought. I have a career. Benefits. A condo payment.
Still, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to wake up every morning and walk to Mistletoe Bakery, to be greeted by the smell of fresh pastries and Bea’s kind smile.
The Grand Cabin is still dark when I return. I set Bea’s box on the counter and pull out ingredients for lasagna. I’m not sure the guys have eaten yet, but I’ll make extra just in case.
I chop vegetables for the sauce while humming along to Frosty the Snowman.
The front door creaks open not long after, bringing with it a gust of cold air and the sound of male voices. My heart does a little flip at the scent of dark chocolate, cedar, and old books mingling in the entryway.
“Something smells amazing,” Finn calls out.
I smile. Tonight belongs to pasta, new friends, and the small victory of choosing my own happiness, one scone at a time.