The whole place smells like a Christmas explosion:wood smoke and spilled beer and the cinnamon from the mulled wine Walter serves in those decorative ceramic mugs shaped like reindeer.
There's gingerbread too—Walter always keeps a bowl of gingerbread cookies on the bar, free for anyone who wants one. The scent of nutmeg, cloves, and molasses weaves through everything else, making the entire tavern smell like a holiday fantasy.
Tonight's theme is "Santa's Workshop Gone Wild," which Walter advertised with hand-drawn posters all over town.
The deal is simple: dress as Santa, get your first drink half off.
The result? We're drowning in Santas.
There are at least fifteen different versions of Santa scattered throughout the bar.
Traditional Santa near the fireplace, complete with a real beard and belly padding. Sexy Santa at the corner table—a Beta woman in a tiny red dress with white fur trim that makes my costume look positively modest. Biker Santa by the jukebox, leather jacket studded with bells, beard braided into Viking-style plaits. Cowboy Santa is complete with boots, hat, and a lasso hanging from his belt. Goth Santa brooding in the darkest booth, all black clothes with red accents and heavy eyeliner that somehow works with the Santa beard.
It's like we've entered a movie with a bunch of doppelganger stunt doubles. Or a fever dream. Or both. The whole thing is chaotic and ridiculous and exactly the kind of small-town nonsense that makes me love Oakridge Hollow.
I rarely take shifts at the bar—maybe once a month when Walter is really desperate and willing to pay double time—but when I do, I go all out with the costume.
It's become my thing. My tradition.
The chance to be someone else for a few hours.
The long silver wig transforms me completely. It falls in soft, glamorous waves past my shoulders, the color catching the fairy lights and making it shimmer like actual silver thread. I spent an embarrassing amount of money on it from a specialty shop,but it's worth it—the synthetic hair is soft and realistic, styled in loose Hollywood waves that frame my face perfectly.
The blue contacts are the finishing touch. They change my eyes from their usual blue-grey to an icy, striking blue that's almost unnatural. Combined with the silver hair, I look like some kind of winter fairy or snow queen instead of myself.
Add in the Mrs. Claus costume—a fitted red velvet dress with white fur trim that hits mid-thigh, showing off legs wrapped in black tights, paired with knee-high black boots that have a sensible heel for working—and I'm basically unrecognizable. The dress has a sweetheart neckline and long sleeves, the velvet soft and festive.
A black belt cinches my waist, and the white fur trim at the cuffs and hemline completes the look.
It's like playing dress-up. Like being someone else for a night. Someone confident and mysterious. Someone who doesn't have to worry about brand deals or finding a pack or running into people from her past.
Except, apparently, the universe has other plans. Because when have I ever gotten what I wanted without complications?
I heft the tray of pints—six of them, each glass sweating condensation—and navigate through the crowded bar. The floor is sticky with spilled drinks, the air thick with competing scents: alcohol, cologne, perfume, sweat, and underneath it all, the complex layers of different designations mixing together.
That's when a particular scent catches my attention.
My nose wrinkles automatically, my body recognizing something before my brain can catch up.
It's familiar—achingly, painfully familiar—but I can't quite pinpoint why. Sharp citrus mixed with expensive cologne, the kind that costs more than my rent. Underneath that is something darker, like burnt coffee and leather that's been treated too many times.
Why do I know this scent? Why does it make my stomach twist with anxiety?
I reach the table—a group of five Alphas all dressed in various Santa costumes, loud and boisterous and taking up way too much space.
And then I see him.
Jasper.
One of Kael's pack members. The Alpha who always looked at me like I was something he scraped off his shoe. The one who made comments about my weight, my clothes, my voice, my existence.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. What is he doing here? Kael's pack never comes to Oakridge Hollow. They think this town is beneath them, too small and too boring for their sophisticated city tastes.
But he doesn't recognize me. The wig, the contacts, the costume—it's working. He's looking right at me, but there's no recognition in his eyes. Just the typical Alpha appraisal of an Omega server, like I'm part of the scenery.
I lower the pints to the table one by one, keeping my face neutral and professional. My hands are steady despite the way my heart is hammering against my ribs.
Just set down the drinks and walk away. He doesn't know it's you. You're safe. You're fine. Just breathe.
