Page 10 of Knot what I want for Christmas
“You met Annie’s friend yet?” I ask him as we bolt the door.
“Nope. Saw her briefly in the truck as Clay was driving past.”
“Yeah,” I say, scratching the side of my cheek. “Funny thing.”
“Funny thing?” Tucker says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Funny thing. Clay never mentioned how pretty she was.”
Tucker lifts an eyebrow in my direction. He happens to think I fall in love far too easily. He says I’m walking around willing my heart to be broken at every opportunity. He says I read too much romance. He probably doesn’t believe me about the omega.
“Seriously,” I say. “Seriously pretty.”
“And she’s an omega,” Tucker says.
“We knew that already,” I tell him.
“A pretty omega,” Tucker says, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile. “Sounds like the perfect gift for Christmas to me.”
“She’s Annie’s best friend,” I remind him. “Off limits.”
“Says who?”
“It’s code. Family code,” I tell him.
“Fuck, Nash,” he says. “A hundred years ago you could marry a cousin. I don’t think there’s any problem with rolling around in the hay with your sister’s best friend, especially if she’s looking for some fun.”
“The girl just lost her mom.”
“So she needs cheering up,” he says, that half-smile growing.
“Tucker,” I warn him.
“Lighten up, Nash,” he responds, plunging his hands inside his pockets as we stroll up to the big house.
“Why’d you think Clay never told us?” I ask my friend.
“That she was pretty? Maybe he doesn’t find her pretty, Nash.” I snort. He’d have to be blind not to find that girl pretty. “Or maybe she’s just not his type.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head. That’s more likely. If I’m considered the packmate who falls in love too easily, then Clay is the exact opposite. He hardly ever falls. No one ever seems to meet up to his high expectations and towering standards.
We head into the kitchen. Mrs. J has left some tall glasses of water out for us along with Mr. J’s latest baking outputs. I pick up two of the cookies and down the water. Tucker does the same, peering his head round the kitchen door, clearly on the lookout for the Christmas visitor. He doesn’t spot her, though he comes back into the kitchen, sniffing at the air.
“Oh man, do you smell that?”
I nod. Her scent suits her. It’s hard to describe why, but I reckon if I’d smelled her first and closed my eyes and imagined a picture of her in my mind, I would have conjured up an image of the girl I met just now, out in the barn. Small, curvy, pretty, bigblue eyes and rosy pink lips. I don’t care what Tucker says – that I fall in love with everyone – Hollie is most definitely my type.
“Want to hang around?” Tucker says.
“No,” I say. “I want to get cleaned up and then I want a drink.”
Tucker nods, shoving a whole cookie into his mouth and then saying around it with his mouth full, “Sounds like a plan, my man.”
It takes us fifteen minutes of walking through the snow to reach the cabin. We could have chosen to put the horses to bed in the barn by our cabin, but the one by the big house is warmer and more comfortable, and call us cold-hearted alphas, but we’re big softies for those damn horses.
Clay’s already In the cabin. It’s glowing from the inside, and when we open the door we’re met by the heat of the roaring fire he’s started in the hearth.
“Hey,” he says. He’s sitting at the small kitchen table, his heels resting on the seat of another chair. “How were the fences?” he says. Now we’re in the depths of December, the weather has turned for the worst and the cattle seem even more determined to break through any weaknesses in the fencing.
