Chapter 19
Marina
Another lady.
What is that supposed to mean? As the two of us walk up the dock to Gil’s seashell-encrusted home on the water, even my jealousy isn’t able to overshadow how freaking gorgeous it is.
My breath catches as I stare at the floating house in the middle of the swamp. It looks roomy for just one person. I wonder if that’s where she comes into play? I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. This could be a best friend, a sister, or—
“Uh, Marina—” Gil begins.
And then I see it.
A white blur, faster than my eyes can register, huffing as it moves down the dock toward the two of us with its tail thudding all the way—a gator.
My gator?
I should move—jump into the water, zig-zag, run like the old camp songs burned into my memory. Instead, I bend down and let the oversized swamp kitten race into my arms.
Clawrece.
My eyes are suddenly glassy. It’s not that I’d forgotten her, it’s just—I never thought she’d be waiting too.
“Well now,” Gil says, with warmth in his Southern drawl. “Seems the whole gang is back together.”
He really is the type to keep his word.
A sudden cramp causes me to freeze once I’m back on my feet. The trip between realms has made it obvious how unpracticed my swimming has become. I try to play it cool as we walk side-by-side down the dock with Clawrece clambering behind us.
“Tired?”
“A little,” I admit, trudging along to keep up with him. Effortlessly, he bends, scooping me up with one arm ’til I’m being carried in his arms like a new bride.
“You don’t have to lie, darlin’.” His voice is soft and low. “It was a long swim, wasn’t it?”
Heat pools at my lower stomach as he carries me through the threshold of his house in large strides. Clawrece moves between his feet like an oversized cat.
I have the distinct impression he dotes on her like a middle-aged woman would a Pomeranian. This gator is overfed, spoiled, and with every moment I’m in his arms, I wonder if I’ll end up the same way.
I don’t know if I’d mind.
Still, as soon as I’m placed on the hardwood floors, my hands find my hips as I shoot him a mock-angry glare. “You let me be jealous on purpose, didn’t you?” I ask, setting my bag down on the kitchen table.
“Hate to say it, darlin’, but you looked awfully cute,” Gil says with a smug grin.
The turquoise scales that run along his neck turn a deep shade of green, and I wonder how he thought I could ever be afraid of him.
Sure, the screaming didn’t help, but in my defense, I wasn’t exactly expecting to find him in my tub. And he was very, very naked.
And he still is.
I avert my eyes, taking in the details of the house.
I expected a cave next to a lagoon, or we’d be snuggled in some nest made of sea moss, but this?
The decor is quirky in a way that feels like walking into a scrapbook.
The carpet is burnt orange and shaggy with Clawrece instantly plopping in the center of it with a happy sounding growl.
As I walk, I trace my fingers along indents of wood paneling and note the family photos on the walls.
It’s the kind of room an old armchair would fit right into without looking out of place.
“So, what do you think?” he asks, his body stalled in the doorway. He lazily leans against the doorframe while I step farther into the open-concept living room.
“Wow,” I say, staring at a mounted novelty singing bass.
I’m no expert, but it feels retro; I think most of this, apart from the singing bass, is maybe from the 1970s?
The colors are bold and happy, and everything has round edges.
I wonder how much of the furniture came directly from the mortal realm.
“Did you decorate yourself?” I ask. “It’s so…” Words like “vintage” and “cozy” come to mind, but I can’t think of a word to really place it except “home.”
“Pardon?” Gil says, lips twisted into a smile.
“Homey,” I correct, not wanting to sound like I’m making a bid to move in with a guy I just met—childhood friend or not. Still, I’m struck by all the little details of this place—how real it is, how real he is.
“Nah.” He shakes his head, walking toward me until we stand inches apart. I’m not used to this new face, but I get the feeling he’s blushing. “I mean, a house is not a home ’til you got someone to share it with…”
Clawrece protests, snapping her jaw with a loud crack. It’s way too close to my heels for comfort. Despite how adorable she is, I am definitely not used to having a gator as a house pet.
I jump into Gil’s arms. The low chuckle that rumbles in his chest suggests that he doesn’t mind. Still feeling mildly embarrassed for falling so quickly into fight or flight, I untangle myself and watch him lean down to give her a scratch under the neck.
“Ah, that’s what I said about her bark, but she’s just yapping,” Gil says, shaking his head. “Still, Clawrece, you mind your manners around Marina, hm?”
She uses her big pale eyes to tug at Gil’s heart strings till his mock-stern expression has melted, and he’s bent down to pet her.
“Oh, alright, we know you’re a good girl though—aren’t you, my princess?” Gil coos, scratching her under the chin. “Yes, you are!” Clawrece squints up happily; I can’t blame her. That’s a series of words I wouldn’t mind hearing pointed in my direction.
“I think you must have offended her before,” I say, leaning down to study this creature. who is the size of a Great Dane, and has teeth that could slice through me.
Gil guides my hand to give the gator another scritch. Clawrece’s scales are smooth as I run my hand across her stomach and hear happy thuds in response.
“Well, I’m sure she wouldn’t complain about having someone around to give her more belly scratches. As a matter of fact, neither would I.”
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a belly scratch kind of guy,” I say, my gaze shifting to the cuts of his abs.
“I’m sure there’s a lot of things that have surprised you,” he responds with a sheepish grin.
“And to answer your question, my Grampy picked out a good lot of the design. He built this place in the ’70s, and it became mine a few years back when he moved to be closer to the great grandkids of the family.
It’s a neat place with lots of trinkets and convenience from your world—most powered off crystals. ”
Crystals.
Huh.
Well, that explains the cozy lamps, and the hum of the old refrigerator.
“Honestly, as far as guys I’ve seen in the past, you’ve been more good surprises than bad,” I say, because now that I know that this is really him, things just make sense. “Which reminds me—didn’t you say you had a closet somewhere filled with deep, dark secrets?”
“Oh!” He takes a step back, a smile on his face. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Enough stalling,” I demand, playfully tapping my foot. “Let’s see what you’re so embarrassed about.”
“Embarrassed is a strong word,” he argues, “but I did say you’d tease me—and I stand by it.” Gil takes my hand in his. The webbing between his fingers is so soft I can’t help but run the pad of my thumb across it as he tugs me through the house.
We’re in the back room of Gil’s place; the windows are big with a view of the water, but what catches my attention is an old wooden box instrument with an antenna jutting out from the center. Ignoring the view, I rush toward it, fiddling with the brass knobs on the side.
“Is this a theremin?” I ask, voice laced with uncertainty despite how much of my childhood I spent around my uncle and musical instruments. I’ve never seen one in person.
He blinks a few times, seemingly frozen in place until finally, “It … is, yeah.”
“No way!” I squeak, trying to figure out how to turn it on. I know it’s supposed to make eerie music that would be at home on a sci-fi soundtrack, but I have no idea how it works. I sigh, putting it down. I can’t let something this cool distract me from the task at hand.
“No, wait, not before you show me your nerdy hobby!” I demand, unable to hide the giddy feeling that’s rising up. A real theremin!
“Marina,” he says, gently taking my hands. “This is my nerdy hobby.”
Oh, he’s got to be kidding.
“You’re going to have to try harder than that,” I say with a long shake of my head. I turn the box over in my hand and think I might have found the power button. Gil lets out a sigh, and my eyes meet his just in time to watch his mouth fall slack before rising into a smirk.
“If you’d like, I can show you my scrapbooking closet.”
“Now you’re definitely kidding.”
“It’s down the hall,” he says, and God, he’s not joking.
I think I’m in love.
“First, I’d like a performance and definitely some backstory. How did you find something like this? Are they popular here?”
“Goddesses no. It’s something my Grampy found on one of his trips to the mortal realm. He thought it was a TV gadget at first; it hung out in this back room for years gathering dust until my friend Magnus and I ended up messing around with it.” He smiles to himself.
“You’ve been playing it ever since?”
He nods, the fins at the side of his neck lower in what seems like either modesty or embarrassment.
“My mama still worries I’m going to shock myself, doesn’t like the idea of someone whose always in the water playing with electricity. But I like it. It’s one of the few instruments I can play without my webbing getting in the way. Though I’ve flirted with a banjo.”
“Should I be jealous again?” I ask, glancing around the room until I find it—stringed and keyed instruments I can definitely work with. And when it comes to banjos, this one looks pretty nice.
“I’m not an expert at either.”
“You can’t be that bad,” I say, “especially with how long you’ve been practicing. Come on, please?” I lay my hand on his forearm. “Play it for me?”
He swallows hard and nods, getting the theremin booted up. Electricity hums through the room. I take a seat on an old rattan chair in the corner to watch the show.
He sits straight, arms poised, and with a precise movement of his hands around the antenna, the sounds begin. They’re different than I was anticipating. The way Gil pulls notes from seemingly thin air, it sounds more like a violin.
It’s mournful for a moment until the rhythm picks up into something silk-soft and delicate.
My throat vibrates with the sound of humming before I can contain it. The night is filled with energy and music, and as hard as it is to pull my eyes from his focused posture, I can’t resist bolting up from my seat to get my keyboard.
“Don’t stop!” I call, running to the kitchen and grabbing my bag—because even for a short trip, of course I brought my keyboard. And I’m thankful the magic Gil used to transport us here through the portals kept my things dry. God knows this thing has been through enough already.
Hurrying back into the sunroom, I set it down, closing my eyes for a moment and listening to the hypnotic notes Gil is playing.
It feels like floating through the clouds.
I click through the tones on the keyboard, finding something light and dreamy.
My hands flutter across the keys, joining in here and there as I feel out the song despite my fumbling nerves.
It’s the sound of his laugh that gets me back on track. There’s nothing mocking or teasing about it—just fun. Pure and simple, and so much of what I’ve been missing in my own songwriting.
Music fills the air, and I’m too caught up by the sound to think about what we could create together beyond this moment. We lock eyes as his fingers curl in the air. With Gil’s small and intentional movements, the notes go higher and my breath catches. I study the way his strong fingers move.
The sound that fills our space is like nothing I’ve ever heard before, and nothing that could be recreated; it’s only us, only this moment, a tempo that bends and moves up and down with a flick of fingers and a meeting of eyes.
The searching feeling that’s been inside me is gone and replaced with the bliss of our song.
Sweat beads at my hairline as the notes and rhythm is replaced by our heaving breathes.
In and out, in and out.
We stare, and stare, our hands poised on our instruments.
“Told you that you couldn’t be bad,” I say, my breath ragged. A lazy grin spreads across my face which he mirrors.
“Guess I’m more suited to a duet.”
“Again?” I ask, my hands on the keys. He straightens with a small nod.
“Your voice sure is pretty,” he says as his claws stroke the air, illuminating the space with more sound “I think I could listen to you humming like that all night.”
“Then you’d be sick of it by the afternoon,” I counter, confident that living with someone who is constantly singing or humming is more annoying than fun. I have the reviews to prove that.
“I’ll take my chances,” he says, and that swelling feeling builds again. This time really does feel different.
With how good this feels, I might have to put it to the test.