Page 1 of Leaping Into Love

chapter one

Live-in groundskeeper, responsible for maintaining approximately one acre of existing landscaping, tending water features, general oversight of an additional acre of natural swamp and wooded area on a private estate. Minimal in-person communication required. Must be comfortable having close proximity to a variety of nonhuman species. Knowledge of herpetology/batrachology preferred but not mandatory for the right applicant. Remuneration package includes on-site accommodations (furnished private cottage on grounds), comfortable weekly wage, full medical benefits, employer-funded pension plan.

tiana

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the job posting online.

Though “a variety of nonhuman species” is an odd way to say “bugs and wildlife common to the area,” and I had to look up herpetology and batrachology—the former being the zoological study of amphibians and reptiles, and the latter, the study of amphibians exclusively—those things didn’t slow me down from submitting my resume. Looking after a private estate’s property, half of which is natural area? Literally my dream job. Plus, the location. On the edge of a small town situated seemingly in the middle of nowhere, hours from the nearest city, convenient to nothing, with no notable aspects to draw tourists. Some would call it a boring hick town in the sticks.

My word for it: idyllic.

Because I’m so done with living in the city. The traffic. The noise. The glare. The constant sea of people, being shoulder to shoulder no matter where you go. Always having to choose between being fake nice or genuinely bitchy to people. Busting my butt for a company that nickel-and-dimes its underpaid employees wherever possible, and doesn’t actually give two shits about the green spaces it claims to care deeply for. Corporate greed and lies.

All I’ve ever wanted to do is be outside among all the amazing living things. Plants, animals, the elements. Ideally, as an independently wealthy recluse, but this job opportunity is the next best thing. And it’s mine.

I didn’t even have to interview in person, though I wouldn’t have minded, since it would’ve given me an opportunity to check out the grounds. A brief phone call with a handful of classic questions, along with a few odd ones, was the extent of the process. Not even a reference check. Just a “the job is yours” from a reserved man with a croaky voice. Pretty sure I blurted my “yes” before he’d even finished making the offer.

Now, here I am, just a few minutes’ drive from my new hometown, Rita’s Hollow. According to my GPS, anyway. I haven’t seen any signs for it, not even at the last major crossroads that had directional signs with town names, arrows, and distances pointing in all directions.

Weirdly coincidental oversight by the county? It must be, because the alternative would mean someone has intentionally taken down signs pointing travelers to Rita’s Hollow. Or, there were never signs to begin with? No town would want to be that secluded, would it?

The beat-up little trailer I acquired in a Facebook Marketplace trade bumps along behind my not-so-gently used hatchback as I make the last turn toward the next chapter of my life. Finally, there’s a sign, one that looks authentically vintage, marking the town limits. A few blinks later, the rural road becomes St. Anthony Street, both sides of the two-lane asphalt lined with well-kept old houses and towering mature trees.

There aren’t many people out and about as I pass through a charming downtown business area, but every single person who is stops in their tracks and stares as I drive by. By the fourth and fifth observers, a pair of women who pause an animated conversation to track my progress down the street, uneasiness stirs in the pit of my stomach.

“It’s just the greasy drive-through breakfast sandwich I snarfed down on the way,” is the lie I tell myself—aloud, as if that’ll make it more believable. To me. But I’m nobody’s fool, not even my own.

A shiver runs up my spine when a man steps onto the sidewalk to watch me drive by. There’s blood on his apron and a knife in his hand, and only the fact that he came out of a butcher shop prevents me from screaming and hitting the accelerator hard. He’s still staring after me when I check my rearview mirror a block later, and I swear to god, our eyes meet in the glass. Cue another shiver. Another flip-flop in my stomach.

I’m overthinking it. They’re just curious, probably because they don’t get a lot of outsiders, or maybe because they’ve heard about a new person coming to town to fill the vacant groundskeeper position at Ulphia Manor. Plus, I’m worn out from hauling boxes down three flights of stairs at my old apartment, then the long-ass drive that required I put my trust entirely in the coordinates I received and my GPS’s interpretation of them because I’ve never taken any of the roads that led here. And I’m nervous about the new job. The new everything. That’s all it is. There’s nothing weird or creepy going on here.

I tap the indicator for the left-hand turn indicated on the GPS. As I make the turn, something niggles at me, a tingly sensation, drawing my attention back to St. Anthony Street once more before it’s out of sight.

“What the—” I hit the brakes hard enough to make my suspension groan and the trailer rattle, giving anyone within earshot an actual reason to look in my direction.

The older man from the butcher shop is still there, and he’s just…a man. Because what else could he be? Not the creature I thought I saw. That’s ridiculous. Impossible.

Shaking my head, I release a long breath and resume course. I doubt they have any fast-food drive-throughs in Rita’s Hollow, and that’s fine with me because I’m never eating one of those greasy, oversauced, sausage wraps ever again.

henry

“She’s almost here,” Munin says as he lands beside me at the edge of the pond.

“Thank you, old friend.” I withdraw my feet from the cool water, roll down the bottoms of my pant legs, then push up from the grass, standing tall beside him. “Did you get a good look at her?”

“Not as good as you’d like.” A snap of his beak punctuates the sentence, then he tilts his jet-black head toward the laneway. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

I nod, but my feet remain planted on the soft grass, rather than follow him toward the front of the property to greet her.

Munin pauses and turns back, his beady black eyes boring into me as his head tips from side to side. “If she’s not the one⁠—”

“She is.” Obviously, she is. How else could she have heard my call?

“Then what?”

“I’ve waited so long, I’d given up believing this day would come.” A croak of longing slips out, but my old friend doesn’t tease, nor make light of it.

Instead, he straightens his feathers and tucks his wings tight to his sides, making himself as upright as possible, then shifts into his human form. “But it has come, and with it, hope for the rest of us.”