Chapter Three Finn
She gasps as I park in front of the house, and I can’t help but smile.
I had a similar reaction to the elevated home set among the marshlands on Wigwam Creek.
It’s one of the perks of my job. It’s not something I would normally choose for myself, being more comfortable in woodland areas, but it’s beautiful with the gentle swishing of the water against the dock out back, the wind rustling the marsh grass.
Being able to watch both the sunrise and sunset over the marshland is breathtaking.
The refuge is an expansive area of almost fifty thousand acres.
It has waterways, wetlands, and forests full of hiking trails, along with bays and coastal marshes.
It’s a whole other world than the Pacific Northwest where I grew up, but it’s what I need.
My house is modest, with a couple of bedrooms and the basics.
There are much more impressive homes out here with multiple stories and walls of windows, but this simple cottage suits me.
Sitting on the screened back porch with a beer is one of my favorite ways to end the day.
Watching the bats swooping to gobble up the mosquitoes and biting flies that make summer here uncomfortable is oddly peaceful.
Raccoons and opossums come out to explore, and I catch glimpses of river otters and muskrats, too.
And the birds. Being adjacent to the refuge, I’m privileged to be visited by so many different bird species. It’s a birdwatcher’s paradise.
“You live here?” Shelby’s voice is breathy with admiration, and I can’t help but think of other ways to make her breathy. She climbs down from her seat in the truck and turns in a slow circle. “It’s beautiful.”
She studies the few houses spread along both sides of my narrow street and the marshlands as far as the eye can see and snaps pictures with her phone.
Growing up in Oregon, I always pictured New Jersey as someplace congested and constantly noisy and busy.
Parts of it are. I was unprepared for the serenity and beauty it holds as well.
I’m privileged to live and work here. Not only do we have the coast, we also have hundreds of thousands of acres of the Pine Barrens, a protected swath of forest spanning multiple counties that is home to countless species of flora and fauna, abandoned towns, and according to legend, the Jersey Devil.
It’s nice not being the only cryptid around here.
Leading her up the steps to my front porch, I’m on alert for anyone lurking about.
Most of my neighbors don’t live here full-time.
They use their homes on weekends or during the summer.
Some rent them out to vacationers, but I don’t see anyone who shouldn’t be around.
The advantage of being able to see for miles is also a disadvantage because that means we can be seen as well.
I’d be more comfortable if we were in the woods where I have a leg up, but we’ll be safe here. I’ll make sure of it.
“Are you okay?” Shelby asks, resting her hand on my forearm. “You seem jumpy.”
“Yeah, checking things out. You’ll be safe here. You can trust me.”
“Finn, it’s insane, but I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time.”
I’m touched but worry she gives her trust too easily. I used to be like that, but after my time on the show and the way my trust—and heart—were shattered, I’ve decided my trust is too precious to give away freely. I know it separates me from people, but I can’t let myself be hurt like that again.
“Don’t be too flattered.” Shelby’s grin is mischievous. “We’ve established I have really faulty judgment.”
I chuckle, but now I’m worrying she’s going to look back on this as another example of a bad decision.
She enters my home first so I can take one last look around before following her inside.
My brain pokes me that if I had made different choices a couple of years ago, today could have been our wedding day, and I’d be carrying her over the threshold into my cottage—our home—instead of walking behind her.
The twinge of my heart confirms I was an idiot. Like I didn’t know that already.
Out of habit, I sit on the bench next to the front door and take off my boots.
She follows suit, taking off her sneakers and placing them neatly alongside the bench, next to my boots.
They’re tiny compared to mine. Bigfoot shifter genes mean I have a large shoe size in my human form too, but it’s jarring to see the difference in our sizes illustrated so clearly.
It’s a reminder I have to be extra careful with human women—with this human woman.
They are too small and delicate for someone like me.
Not that I’d ever intentionally hurt someone, but my size and strength are a lot to handle.
Female Bigfoot shifters, or other shifters like wolves, bears, and big cats, can handle it, but human females seem so fragile.
I’m too much. But also, not enough. My experience with Ivy from the show was enough to prove I’m best off sticking with other shifters.
But I don’t want a shifter female. All I want is Shelby.
“Ready for the grand tour?” I ask, rising from the bench.
“Sure am.” The smile she’s sporting does funny things to my heart.
Leading her down the hallway, I point to the first door on the left. “Guest bathroom. It only has a shower stall. If you need a tub, there’s one in the bath off my room, and you’re welcome to use it. Guest room.” I open the next door and step back so she can look in.
Striding in, she runs her hand over the royal blue bedspread on the queen-size bed. It’s a simple room with a bed, dresser, and nightstands made from white painted wood. On one wall, there’s a painting of the marshes with a blue heron standing sentry.
“Did you paint this?” Shelby asks, leaning forward to examine the detail.
“No,” I say with a headshake. “My sister, Violet, did. I can’t draw or paint. I made this.” I pick up a small bear figurine I carved from driftwood that washed up near the house.
She takes it from my palm and holds it up in front of her face to examine it more closely.
It’s a simple figure, more shape than detail, but she’s acting like it was carved by Michaelangelo.
She runs a fingertip along its back, and I swear I feel her touch on my skin, creating heat in places that have been dormant for years.
“It’s beautiful,” Shelby says reverently.
“I don’t have any artistic talent. Or any talents.
I’m great at picking horrible fiancés and disloyal best friends.
If being a poor judge of character was an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist.” Her self-deprecating laugh grates on my nerves.
I hate that she thinks she doesn’t have any talents.
I’m sure she does. More than that, I hate that she’s been hurt by people who don’t deserve her.
I’m angry with myself. If I’d made different choices years ago, maybe neither one of us would have been hurt. Maybe it’s all my fault.
As we continue down the hall, I point out my bedroom across from hers. I wish my house was tidier. It’s not a mess, but I have dirty socks next to the couch, my laptop on the coffee table. There’s clutter, butt it doesn’t seem to register with Shelby.
She walks toward the sliding glass doors leading to my screened-in back porch and lets out a big sigh. “How incredible is this view?” Cocking her head and moving her hands like she’s trying to figure something out, she points out the door and says, “That’s south?”
“Wow, that’s impressive. You have an excellent sense of direction.”
The dimple in her right cheek makes a reappearance with her smile. “Maybe that’s my talent.”
I’m sure she has more talents than that.
I open the dishwasher and start loading it. Without me asking, Shelby picks up the plates and cups I’ve left around and brings them over.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I say. “It’s my mess, and you’re my guest.”
She swats my arm with the back of her hand, and I realize she’s not wearing any rings.
“You don’t have an engagement ring?” I can’t stop looking at her bare finger.
“Not any longer. I ripped it off and threw it at them when I caught them. I hated it anyway. It was sponsored. He didn’t even buy it for me.
Almost everything about our wedding was a sponsorship opportunity.
I can’t believe I sold my wedding. I did it because that’s what Konner wanted.
The only thing I insisted on was it be at the resort because that’s where my grandparents and parents got married.
I paid for that myself. I didn’t care about swan ice sculptures or statement flower arrangements.
” She makes air quotes when she says statement.
“Everything was statement or bespoke. I don’t care about that stuff.
I wanted my sister there, maybe have her bake my cake.
Vanilla with a coconut buttercream filling.
I wanted icing flowers on it. I don’t care if it’s old-fashioned.
Not lavender and matcha and whatever other trendy flavors my fiancé and best friend insisted on.
And naked. They wanted the cake naked. Can you believe it?
The best part of cake is the frosting, right? ”
“Absolutely. I love coconut. Your cake sounds delicious. Speaking of delicious, what do you want for dinner? I have steak in the fridge. I could grill it and make a couple of baked potatoes. If you don’t want that, I have pasta and jarred sauce. I’m not a great cook, but I can do basics.”
“Steak and potatoes sound good. What can I do to help?”
“Mrrwww?” My favorite female decides to join the conversation. Bending down, I scoop up my tabby cat, Marsha, and cradle her against my chest while scratching behind her ears. The rumble of her purrs vibrates through my chest.
“Hello, my beautiful girl,” I croon before pressing a kiss to her head. “Did you have a good day?” We have this conversation every day. It’s our routine.