Except I am.
And it’s pathetic.
I want to be over there laughing and playing games, not stuck here with inane spreadsheets. I want to be the one making Melody laugh like that, the one sitting close enough to catch the shifts in her vanilla-clove scent when she laughs.
“Coming to get the fugitive,” I text back.
The dots appear as Gabe types his response: “He’s entertaining.”
That’s when another photo arrives, this one of Melody adjusting Oxford’s scarf, a new one that she’s apparently given him. Her face is close to his, and she’s telling him something with a soft smile on her lips.
I close my laptop and stand, stretching muscles stiff from hours of chopping trees. The cottage living room feels suddenly too small, too confining. Mom knits in Granny’s chair by the window, and Charlie sprawls on the sofa, watching some Christmas movie with the volume too low to hear correctly.
“I need to go get Oxford,” I announce, trying to sound casual. “He’s at the rental cabin again.”
Mom doesn’t look up from her knitting. “That llama is more social than you are, Everett.”
Charlie snorts, her eyes still fixed on the TV. “He’s visiting his girlfriend. The one who twerks.”
I ignore the heat rising in my cheeks. “She’s not his girlfriend.”
“Whose girlfriend? The llama’s or yours?” Charlie finally looks at me, a smirk playing on her lips.
“I’m leaving now,” I say, refusing to dignify her teasing with a response.
Charlie wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Tell Melody I said hi, and that I want details about whatever’s happening with you three.”
“Nothing is happening.”
“Yeah, sure. The sexual tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.”
“Charlie!” Mom scolds, but there’s amusement in her voice.
I grab my coat from the hook by the door, shrugging it on with perhaps more force than necessary. As I pass the linen closet, I pause. Melody may need more blankets. The Grand Cabin has plenty, but extra blankets are always welcome in winter. And pillows. Omegas love pillows and soft things.
I select the softest, fluffiest options we have. The large quilted one Granny made last winter, two down pillows, a throw blanket with pine trees embroidered around the edges, and one straight off my bed that still carries my scent.
No ulterior motives at all. Nope. None.
I load everything into my truck rather than taking the snowmobile. The truck seems more appropriate for a casual, not-at-all-desperate visit to retrieve a llama and deliver bedding.
The drive to the Grand Cabin takes less than five minutes, but I use every second to lecture myself on acting normal.
Don’t stare at her.
Don’t sniff the air like some creep.
Don’t mention the scent match.
Don’t make it weird.
I park in the circular driveway and gather the bedding in my arms, balancing the precarious stack as I make my way to the front door. I’m halfway there when I realize I can’t knock while holding everything. I awkwardly try to shuffle the bundle into one arm so I can reach out to knock, but the load is so bulky I lose my grip. I quickly jerk to catch the falling pillows, and I smack my head against the window.
At the sound of the soft thunk, Finn spots me through the window and leaps up to open the door, his face breaking into a grin. “Well, if it isn’t the tree tycoon himself!” He steps back, gesturing grandly. “Enter, good sir. Your royal llama awaits.”
“Brought some extra bedding,” I say when Finn looks at my pile. “Nights are getting colder.”
“How thoughtful.” Finn’s eyes sparkle as he steps aside to let me in. I step inside, and the warmth of the cabin engulfs me along with the scent of vanilla and clove that’s been haunting me since I first caught a whiff of it. It’s everywhere—in the air, on the furniture, seeping into the very walls.
