Page 105 of My Big Fat Shifter Wedding

I was never going to go back to that shallow existence again.

No, whether it was were—shifters, or tipsy cousins, or any of the other bumps in the road that came from a happy union, I was thrilled to experience it all.

Knock-knock!

I looked up sharply at that, surprised at the strong rap on my door. That wasn’t how Olivia knocked. Amanda and I didn’t really hang out on our own that often, and it certainly wasn’t my mother so… who?

Maybe it’s an errant vacuum salesman. That had been a thing when I was a child, but no one went door-to-door anymore. But when I answered the door, it wasn’t any sort of solicitation at all.

Enzo Rizoli, Olivia’s father, stood on my doorstep with a stern expression on his face.

“Oh, Mr. Rizoli!” I blurted in lieu of a more welcoming greeting. What could I say? I was surprised to see him. Other than a comic-book superhero, he was about the last person I expected on my doorstep. “Did you need something?”

I realized that the chances of him being at my house casually were nil. Was this because I had found out about her family’s magical nature? I figured they didn’t want word about them getting out to humans, and despite what some bullies had said when I was growing up, I was human.

“May I come in?”

There was probably some rule about not inviting a disgruntled wolf shifter into my house after ruining his son’s engagement party, but I wasn’t about to say no to my (hopefully) future father-in-law, so I stepped to the side and gestured inward.

“Please. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you.”

All right then, so I couldn’t distract myself from the awkwardness or anxiety by doing a simple task. Quickly, my mind rattled through all the things that I could do to be a good host.

“Would you like a tour?”

“Sure.”

Actually, that was somehow worse.

Nevertheless, the words were out of my mouth, so I went about showing him my modest home. While it wasn’t anything like his mansion (in fact, I was sure three of my houses could fit into his with room to spare), it wasn’t exactly meager either. My mother had worked incredibly hard to save up for it and had got it for a good price because it had needed a lot of work. She’d done most of that work herself or bartered with people until I began to show a real aptitude for woodwork and started doing more heavy-duty DIY. Plenty of people my age would never get the chance to own a home themselves, so I wasn’t ever going to take my place for granted.

I stuck to the first floor, trying to be witty, but Mr. Rizoli didn’t really engage. He nodded, made the occasional listening sound, and complimented some architectural choice I’d made. He especially liked the bannisters on the stairs I didn’t lead him up.

“You are limping.”

“Huh?”

I’d been showing him the crown molding I was proud of when he said that. It knocked me out of my groove, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Yeah. Leg’s still healing up.”

“Still?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

And that was that. Neither of us was winning any conversational awards anytime soon.

I continued on as best I could, but it wasn’t until I led him out to the workshop that I got more than a few utterances from him.

“What’s this?” he asked, immediately going over to my canoe. “You building a boat?”

“Canoe, but yeah. Getting close to being finished. It’s my pet project. I’ve done furniture for most of my life, so I wanted to expand my horizons to something more practical.”

He gave me a look with a raised eyebrow, and suddenly it was like I had a dad who was now giving me a very dad-esque expression. Huh. That was a new feeling.