Page 5 of Knot what I want for Christmas
“There’s me, Tucker, and Nash,” I say. “Just the three of us.”
“Just three,” Annie chuckles.
But I don’t see what’s so funny about that.
“And they’re basically running the ranch now,” Annie says. “Dad’s knee’s gotten so bad he can’t really do much around the ranch anymore. They’ve basically taken it over.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“And they’re doing a pretty good job.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” Annie says, blowing me a kiss.
We continue down the bumpy track, the girls bouncing in the back seat, Hollie much quieter than she has been for the rest of the drive. I wonder whether she regrets coming. I know a pack isn’t every omega’s dream. In fact, some omegas steer clear of packs altogether, packs and alphas. Hollie has always been one of those omegas; from the little snippets of information I’ve gleaned over the years, it’s clear she’s only ever dated betas. Which is fine. Just dandy. A-okay. Because I don’t need to be mixing myself up with Hollie Bright.
I was there when Annie asked my parents if Hollie could visit over Christmas. I know how worried my little sister has been about her oldest friend, how anxious she is to ensure this festive period is perfect for her. I’m more than aware of what the woman needs right now and it isn’t me.
Besides, Hollie Bright is a city girl. Always has been, always will be, and I don’t need the distraction of a fling with a girl I’ve been thinking about for the last ten years. It would only lead to a lot more thinking in the long run.
Finally, as we swing past a small copse of trees, the old family home comes into view, its many windows a soft pink in the winter’s sunlight and the wooden porch that runs the entirety of the house decorated with fir branches, sprigs of holly and bunches of mistletoe.
“This is it!” Annie cries, pointing out of the front windshield. “This is the old family house, built by my great-great-great-grandfather in 1874.”
“It’s that old?” Hollie says.
“You better believe it,” Annie says. “Which is why every floorboard creaks and every tap leaks.”
“Virtually the only original thing remaining are the foundations,” I add. “Obviously it’s had a lot of updating and renovation since 1874.”
“Yeah,” Annie says with a grin, “there’s heating and everything. Even running water and flushing lavatories.”
“Lavatories. Good to know,” Hollie says. “I’m not sure I fancy the idea of trekking through the snow to some outback toilet.”
I pull up outside the house, and I’m guessing my parents must hear the truck ’cause they come out to greet us, my mom practically sprinting down the front steps. She has almost as much energy as my little sister.
“Hollie, sweetheart,” she says, enveloping the smaller omega in one of her renowned hugs, locks of silvery red hair slipping loose from her bun. “I was so sorry to hear about your mom, and I’m so glad you’re here,” she says.
I don’t know if Hollie is a hugger or not, but she has no choice but to stand and take the hug my mom’s offering. And then my dad’s there too. He’s definitely not a hugger, but he pats her on the shoulder.
“How you doing, kid?” he asks her.
“Good,” Hollie says. “I’m good – thank you – and very grateful to you both for letting me come stay.”
“Nonsense,” my mom says. “The more, the merrier.”
“And it’s going to be particularly merry this year,” my dad says. “Clay’s pack, Annie home and you too, Hollie. I don’t think we’ve ever had this many people for Christmas.”
“Think you can cope?” Annie asks my dad, nudging him lightheartedly with her elbow.
He places his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. “I think I can rise to the challenge.”
Since my dad’s knee gave way 18 months ago and stopped him from taking a more active role in the running of the ranch, he’s discovered a passion for cooking. Some might call it an obsession. I blame that damn show, The Great British Bake-Off. For the first two weeks after he did his knee, all he could do was sit and watch TV with his leg stretched out in front of him. He watched a hell of a lot of that show. Since then he’s been creating all sorts in the kitchen and I’m having to work extra hard on the ranch to keep off the pounds.
“Well, come on,” my mom says. “Let’s not stand around out here in the cold. Let’s take you inside and warm you up. Clay, you can bring the bags, right?”
I tip my hat at my mom to signal my consent and watch as my mom and sister lead the little omega up the steps, across the porch, and through the door, disappearing inside.
