Page 23 of Wrong Number, Right Valentine

Reg’s shifter friend sent us links for other houses, and we spent the next Sunday traipsing from one place to another.

“The kitchen is so small. It’s not big enough for two people.” I couldn’t imagine having two adults, two children, and a dog in that space. Yes, I was thinking ahead and dreaming of us as a family.

We crossed that place off the list.

“Do you smell something?” Reg put his head close to mine as we stuck our head into an ensuite bathroom. “I want to gag.”

There was a whiff of a yucky smell, but as a shifter’s senses were more powerful than a human’s, my mate couldn’t cope with the stink. He said his wolf would refuse to live in that house.

A third place had spots of black mold on the ceiling, and we turned on our heels and walked out.

We drove up to the last place and took one look at the house with the rotting porch and broken gate. Reg and I shared a glance and he kept on driving. We weren’t looking for a fixer-upper. That house would be perfect for a couple who wanted to do the renovations themselves or had the money to pay for contractors.

Neither Reg nor I were those people.

“Does the house of our dreams exist only in our imagination?”

We were preparing dinner. I was so down, having expected that we’d find the perfect place, snatch it up under the nose of another potential buyer, and live happily ever after.

Reg poured me a glass of wine and told me to sit.

“From everything I’ve heard and read, it can take years.”

“What if we never find our home?” I couldn’t see the future if we didn’t create a place that was truly ours.

“Dreams can be adjusted and swerved in another direction. We could buy a large apartment.” Reg kissed the top of my head. “But as long as we’re together, I don’t mind. We could live in a tent.”

I made a face cause I hated camping and peeing outside, but as a shifter, Reg’s wolf was happy to sleep on the ground or a floor.

“Not a tent, love.”

My mate chortled. “Fine. Wherever we are, there must be a bed.”

“And a toilet.” I wasn’t pooping in the woods.

“I’d add a shower to the list.”

“And preferably a kitchen,” I added.

“Let’s toast to our new home that has a bed, bathroom, and kitchen.”

We clinked glasses, and Reg resumed making dinner. His phone dinged, and he ignored it, saying it was his day off.

I didn’t understand how he could ignore a message. What if there was a disaster at the restaurant or something had happened to the pack?

And when he did read it, he grimaced. “It’s Rory. Says he’s got more houses for us to look at.”

I was torn between wanting to find the perfect home and not wanting to be disappointed.

“Do we inspect them?”

18

REG

I had officially watched too many house-hunting shows on television because, in my mind, the process was going to follow a predictable script. We’d look at a handful of houses, quickly eliminate a couple of hard passes, and then agonize over the final two, debating which one stole our hearts. Reality turned out to be nothing like that.

It felt more like rummaging through a garage sale, searching for the one book that completed a collection, only to find a thousand textbooks on topics you didn’t care about. Sure, it was promising at the start, but the reality of how bleak the outcome was set in really quickly, until you wanted to give up.

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