“True, but I’d be crying with a full stomach.”
I stamp the snow from my boots and push open the door. “Melody? We come bearing actual food.”
No response. The living room sits empty, though Christmas music plays softly from the speakers.
“Maybe she went to bed?” I whisper, though it’s only eight o’clock.
Gabe shakes his head, his nostrils flaring slightly. “She’s here.”
Sometimes I forget how different his senses are from mine.
Where I smell pine and cinnamon and whatever deliciousness is in the casserole, he can pick out individual scents, track them like some kind of sexy bloodhound. It’s one of those alpha things I’ll never fully understand, like how he always knows when I’m upset before I say anything.
We move further into the cabin, and that’s when I spot her at the dining table. Melody is slumped forward, her head resting directly on her laptop keyboard, blonde hair spilling across the keys. Her cheek is squished against the letters, and I’d bet money there’s a keyboard imprint forming on her skin. The screen is a jumble of nonsense letters—her cheek must be pressing random keys.
“Should we wake her?” I ask softly.
I look to Gabe when he doesn’t answer. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite read—a softness as he looks at her, an intensity that seems different from his usual stoicism.
“You’ve been quieter this afternoon. Penny for your thoughts?”
Gabe grunts noncommittally.
“Use your words, big guy.” I nudge him with my elbow. “That’s why evolution gave us language.”
“Just tired,” he finally says, but I know him too well to believe it. Something is brewing behind those beautiful eyes, something he’s not ready to share yet.
I decide not to push. Three years with Gabe have taught me when to prod and when to let him process. Tonight feels like the latter.
“Well, Mrs. Pine really outdid herself with this casserole,” I say instead. “We should wake Melody up and make sure she eats something… she might end up with a neck kink if we don’t.”
I set the casserole down on the counter while Gabe approaches Melody. He places a gentle hand on her shoulder, his touch lighter than most would expect from someone his size.
“Melody,” he says softly.
She stirs with a slight groan—her face peeling away from the keyboard with a subtle sticking sound that makes me wince. When she lifts her head, there’s a perfect QWERTY imprint on her cheek, red lines marking where each key pressed against her skin.
“Oh god,” she mumbles, straightening up and immediately wincing. “Ow, my neck.”
“Fell asleep working?” I ask, already moving to grab plates. “Your boss is a menace, by the way. Working on vacation should be illegal.”
She rubs her neck, grimacing. “What time is it?”
“Just past eight,” Gabe says, his voice still that gentle rumble. “You hungry?”
“Starving, actually,” she admits, closing her laptop. Her stomach growls as if on cue, and a blush spreads across her cheeks.
It’s adorable.
“Perfect timing then!” I call from the kitchen. “Mrs. Pine sent us home with her famous chicken casserole. The woman is a culinary genius.”
Melody attempts to rotate her neck and flinches. “I shouldn’t have had that second Eggnog-tini with Charlie. It hit me harder than I expected.”
“We heard about your showdown with the mayor,” I say, dishing up three heaping portions of casserole. The steam rises with a savory aroma that makes my mouth water. “Charlietexted. Oxford the Avenger, coming to the rescue of Omega Rights everywhere.”
A flush creeps up her neck. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Are you kidding?” I laugh, carrying plates to the table. “Everett’s probably going to give that llama a medal.”
