Chapter 12
HANNAH
It’s past midday, and I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed in what’s apparently my new room, surrounded by boxes and bags and the scattered pieces of my life.
Kane helped me haul everything up from Lily’s place about an hour ago.
Boxes of clothes, my laptop and charger, stacks of event planning books and magazines I’ve collected over years, the few kitchen gadgets I’d accumulated, framed photos of Mom and Lily and Dad.
Along with new baby photos of Sage and Blake that Lily framed for me.
It all looks pathetically small spread out in this enormous space with its Omega-size bed and walk-in closet and attached bathroom.
I just got off the phone with Lily, who, instead of freaking out like a normal person, kept insisting that I’m doing the right thing.
“If you feel like they’re your scent matches, Hannah, you need to give this a real chance. You can’t run from biology forever. And from everything I’ve seen, those guys are obsessed with you. Like, completely gone for you. Don’t throw it away because you’re scared.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You’re terrified. I can hear it in your voice. But you’re also excited, and that’s what matters.”
Now I’m changed into comfortable jeans and a soft blue sweater that’s seen better days but feels like a hug. I’m barefoot on the plush carpet, trying to convince myself I haven’t made a massive mistake.
And I’m pretty sure there are still crumbs from the pork roll banh mi we grabbed for lunch down my bra.
Kane took me to this tiny Vietnamese place tucked in a strip mall between a laundromat and a nail salon, and the sandwich was so amazing—crispy bread, savory pork, pickled vegetables, cilantro, jalapenos—that I devoured it without caring about being ladylike. Crumbs everywhere.
A knock sounds at my door.
“It’s open,” I call.
The door swings wide, and there stands Chris, all six feet, three inches of pure muscle and deliciousness filling the doorway with that devastating smirk on his face that I adore.
“Welcome home,” he says, smiling warmly.
I’m staring. Can’t help it. Can’t even pretend I’m not.
He’s wearing blue jeans and a gray long-sleeved thermal shirt that clings to every defined muscle of his chest and arms. His deep brown hair is slightly tousled like he’s been running his hands through it.
That smirk. God, I remember from the Santa incident, from our kiss that’s been replaying in my head on a loop since it happened.
“You have no idea how excited I am that you’re here,” he says, one shoulder propped against the frame.
My heart does a stupid little stutter.
“Careful,” I say, lifting my chin. “Say things like that and I might start thinking you like having me under your roof.”
One corner of his mouth kicks up, slow and wicked. “I do.” His gaze drags over my room, then back to me, deliberate enough that my skin prickles. “Safer for you. Easier for me to keep an eye on you.”
There it is again. That possessive edge under the easy charm that I pretend I don’t notice.
“Now, put on warm clothes and boots. We’re heading out.”
I blink. “Where?”
“We’re going to get a Christmas tree.”
I laugh, because I genuinely cannot picture it. “You’re joking. You three are going shopping for a tree? I thought you had one, propped up against the back of the house.”
His eyes spark. “That one’s for donating and too small for us. Plus, Kane said you were disappointed that we didn’t have one up yet.”
I grin, remembering the gorgeous white tree at Giuseppe’s place. “I guess he could have construed my words that way.”
“So we fix it. Today. All four of us. You get your tree, I get to saw in front of you. Everybody wins.”
My pulse thuds between my ribs with excitement about getting a tree. “Sure, why not?”
“Five minutes,” he says. “Boots, coat, downstairs.” He winks, then walks away from my room, broad shoulders disappearing down the hall, and I stand there clutching the hem of my sweater, trying to remember how to breathe, let alone say no to an Alpha who wants to chop down a Christmas tree just because I asked why theirs wasn’t up yet.
I grab thick wool socks, my heaviest cable-knit sweater over a thermal layer, and my winter coat. By the time I’m bundled up and heading downstairs in my snow boots, I’m sweating slightly, but at least I won’t turn into a popsicle.
All three of them are waiting in the living room, and the sight stops me on the bottom step like I’ve walked into a wall.
They’re geared up for serious outdoor winter activity, and they look like they stepped out of some kind of rugged-Alpha catalog.
Kane is in a forest-green jacket that makes his hazel eyes pop, worn jeans, heavy boots laced tight. His dark blond hair is slightly wind-tousled, and he’s grinning at me like we’re about to commit a heist instead of cutting down a tree.
Noel is wearing all black that showcases every line of muscle, heavy-duty boots, his long hair tied back in a way that emphasizes his strong jaw. He looks dangerous. Competent. Like he could track someone through a blizzard and enjoy every second.
Chris has added a dark jacket over his shirt and is holding what looks like professional-grade rope coiled over one shoulder.
“There she is,” Kane says, his grin widening. “Ready for an adventure, baby girl?”
“I mean, there’s a great tree shop on the edge of town,” I offer, descending the last step. “They’ve got pre-cut trees, totally reasonable prices, and you don’t risk losing fingers to frostbite.”
All three of them laugh like I’ve told the funniest joke they’ve ever heard.
“We’re doing this ourselves,” Noel says.
“The way it’s meant to be done,” Chris adds, moving toward me. He reaches out, tugs my coat zipper up the last few inches. “Can’t have you freezing on us.”
“Old-school lumberjack style it is,” I say, trying to sound casual instead of completely flustered by his proximity.
I follow them outside into the crisp afternoon air. Kane’s blue truck is parked and running, exhaust puffing white clouds.
Kane pops into the garage and soon emerges carrying a professional-grade saw, the kind with serious teeth that mean business.
Chris is checking the rope, testing its strength with pulls that make his forearm muscles flex. Noel is cracking his knuckles.
“Okay, definitely old school,” I admit, climbing into the back seat of the truck.
Kane and Noel take the front seats, Chris sliding in beside me.
Kane backs down the driveway, and I’m trying very hard not to stare at Chris at my side.
“So what kind of decorations do you usually use?” Kane asks once we’re on a dirt road, heading deeper into the mountains.
“Everything,” I admit, relaxing into the seat.
“I’m completely excessive about Christmas.
Ornaments from every year of my life, including the truly hideous ones I made in elementary school.
Tinsel, so much tinsel. Lights in multiple colors.
Candy canes. Glass balls. Homemade ornaments.
Popcorn strings if I’m feeling ambitious. ”
“We keep ours pretty minimal and a tradition my grandparents used to carry out back in their day. I used to spend lots of time here growing up to not deal with my parents,” Noel says from the front.
“And they taught me how to hang walnuts that are spray-painted gold, bake apples on the night we put up the tree, hand-wrapped chocolates in brown paper tied with twine, candy canes.”
“It’s keeping the old traditions alive,” Kane adds.
“Is that right, Candy Kane,” Chris adds.
Kane groans dramatically. “I will murder you and make it look like an accident.”
“He loves to be licked,” Chris adds, completely ignoring the threat. “It’s basically his favorite activity.”
I’m laughing. I can’t help it. “Very clever wordplay.”
Snow covers everything in pristine white, trees heavy with it, the world looking like someone shook a giant snow globe and let everything settle perfectly.
“So how does this actually work?” I ask, desperate to think about something other than Kane’s mouth each time he glances back at me over his shoulder. “Can you just chop down any random tree, or is that, like, super illegal?”
“There’s public land where the forest service allows it with permits, and where the best trees grow,” Chris explains, nudging me with his shoulder, moving in closer to my space.
“We do it every year,” Kane adds.
We pull off onto another dirt road that’s been partially plowed, parking in a small lot that’s empty except for one other truck in the distance.
The cold hits immediately when we climb out and burns my lungs in the most invigorating way. Everything is quiet except for the crunch of our boots in the snow and the distant calls of birds.
“Most common Christmas trees around here are various pines,” Noel details out loud as we start walking into the forest, following a trail that’s been packed down by previous visitors.
“We prefer white pine since the needles are long and soft. They don’t stab you like other pine varieties do when you’re decorating. ”
“The most common wild-growing fir in this area is balsam,” Kane adds, stepping over a fallen log and then turning to offer me his hand. “Makes a beautiful Christmas tree. Smells incredible. Holds its needles well.”
“You guys really know your trees,” I observe, slightly breathless.
“We take Christmas seriously,” Chris says from behind me.
We spread out slightly, each of us scanning the trees around us. The forest here is sparse enough to walk comfortably, snow pristine except for animal tracks crisscrossing everywhere. I’m not exactly sure what I should be searching for, as they all look gorgeous to me.
“What about this one?” Kane calls, pointing to a tree that’s maybe five feet tall and perfectly shaped.
“Too small!” Noel calls back. “We need something that makes a statement!”
“This one?” Chris gestures to a massive specimen that would require a crane to move.
“Unless you’re planning to cut a hole in the ceiling and turn it into a two-story-tree situation!” Kane replies.