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.
