My heart leaps.
My family!
They made it after all!
Maybe Dad rallied, and they caught the next flight?
I picture Mom in the kitchen, Dad setting the table, Aunt Karen criticizing everyone’s technique. The thought is enough to propel me out of bed despite my hangover.
I stand too quickly. The room tilts alarmingly, and I grab the bedpost to steady myself.
Is that… chocolate I smell?
The aroma of rich chocolate wafts up, mingling with cedar and a hint of black pepper. I inhale deeply, savouring the sweet and spicy scent. My stomach gives a hopeful gurgle, momentarily overcoming its hangover protest.
I glance at myself in the mirror and wince.
My hair looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket, mascara has migrated south, and my eyes are so bloodshot they could star in a horror movie.
No time to fix it, though. My family has seen worse.
I tiptoe to the door and crack it open.
The voices don’t sound like my family at all.
“…too much cinnamon,” says a deep voice.
“There’s no such thing as too much cinnamon,” replies another, lighter male voice.
Strangers.
In my rental cabin.
Making breakfast.
They sound relaxed. Comfortable. Like they belong here. But they don’t. This is my Christmas tragedy palace.
Mine.
I need a weapon. Scanning the room, I spot my oversized purse slumped in the corner. Target acquired.
I shuffle-stumble across the room, drop to my knees, and dig frantically through the chaos that is my bag. Lipstick, tampons, three pens that probably don’t work, half a protein bar—there it is—my Alpha-Away spray.
Armed with my chemical deterrent, I creep down the stairs, wincing as each step makes my head throb. The stairs open directly into the great room with its soaring cathedral ceiling. From my position halfway down, I can see into the kitchen.
My jaw drops.
Two men are making themselves completely at home.
One is enormous, dark-haired, and radiating big D—I mean, alpha—energy, and is standing at the stove flipping pancakes. The other, slimmer, with auburn hair, wears black-rimmed glasses and is definitely a beta, arranges plates on the island.
Neither has noticed me yet.
“She’ll probably sleep until noon,” the alpha rumbles in a deep voice.
“After the amount of bourbon she put away? I’d be surprised if she wakes before dinner,” the other replies, lighter, amused.
I freeze mid-step. They’re talking about me. These strangers know me.
