FELIX
Nervous, I look around the cabin and try to see it through a stranger’s eyes.
The effort is useless.
All I see are the same log walls, the same timber ceiling, the same faded, thread-bare and worn furniture I’ve seen every day of my life.
I was two when Mom moved us to Winter Lake to live with her younger brother. Four when Uncle Granger built this cabin on a section of his land so me and Mom could have a place of our own.
But as old and worn as this place is, it’s home—my home—and I love it.
I feel safe here. Close to Mom even though she’s no longer around, and I want my wife to feel the same comfort I do.
My wife.
Shaking my head, I mentally swear at past me.
What the fuck was I thinking, ordering a wife off a damn website?
If it wasn’t for the fact there are no fees involved inpurchasinga wife, I’d think Get Hitched was a scam. The siteis set up like a community notice board, except instead of jobs or places to rent or pets looking for new homes, it’s a bunch of profiles. Men and women looking for the same thing. Marriage.
I stumbled across Get Hitched while investigating a different company. I admit I was instantly intrigued. So intrigued I spent every spare minute over the next few months reading every profile until a few weeks ago when a new one popped up. The woman’s location snagged my attention instantly. Winter Lake. Only a handful of miles down the mountain.
She seemed like a gift.
Everything about her pulled at me in a way I didn’t—still don’t—understand. And the fact her photo was a profile picture only strengthened that pull. My own photo is the same. Side-on. Good side to the camera.
Rubbing a hand over the left side of my face, I feel every ridge and hollow. Feel the raised flesh next to my eye thin as it pulls tight with my frown.
I’m not afraid she’ll turn away or stare like most people, although there is a niggle of doubt, but I made sure she was aware of my injuries and okay with them. I guess the proof of that will be when she lays eyes on me for the first time.
She.
Riley Rose.
My wife.
Scratching at the door has me turning. “Not yet, Neville,” I say to the mutt I adopted last year. Or should that be adopted me?
He turned up at my door one morning and never left. The week after he first appeared, I asked Uncle Granger to take him to the town vet and discovered he was only a few months old with no microchip but in surprisingly good health in spite of what his ratty coat might have you believe. After his checkup, wehad to decide if one of us wanted to keep him or find him a new home.
Considering the mutt found his way straight back here when Uncle Granger took him home—twice—we had no choice in the matter. Neville decided.
I think that was when I first started to take a deeper look at my life. Before I had Neville to keep me company, I had no idea how lonely I was. Like I was missing something. And a dog for a companion is great, but only goes so far in relieving the emptiness of my isolation.
Being social is not in my wheelhouse. Not since the accident that killed Mom and left me scarred for life. I have plenty of interactions online—my job requires it, but leaving the cabin, or the forest surrounding it, isn’t something I do often.
Not even for groceries. Uncle Granger picks up mine when he gets his and I can’t recall the last time I spoke to anyone face to face besides him.
Will Riley want to leave the cabin?
Head to town to hang out with friends?
It was one of the first questions I asked about her living out here with no close neighbors.
In our correspondence, she mentioned not having friends, that she’s a loner looking for companionship—a family. She assured me she was fine with living in the mountains away from town. Looking forward to the peace and quiet.
I have no option except to take her at her word.
