Harley Wolfe

All she wanted for Christmas was silence. What she got was a Sasquatch with a sourdough addiction. He stole her sourdough. She stole his heart.

She's running from the spotlight. He's addicted to it. A disgraced photographer flees to a West Virginia cabin — and her porch light is a siren call to the creature of shadow and static in the woods.

The bride is a bridezilla. The venue is a swamp. And her carpenter has wings. He's the Jersey Devil — and he's surprisingly good at carpentry.

He's big. He's wet. And he's currently eating all my pizza. She wanted a quiet life running the ferry; instead she's hiding a shapeshifting Kraken named Squishy in her bathtub.

She's a broke goat farmer with thirty days to save her land. He's a seven-foot Chupacabra who answered her ad for a predator consultant — does yoga at 4 AM and knits sweaters for her goats.

She inherited a failing farm and a stubborn refusal to ask for help. He escaped a labyrinth built to contain him — a seven-foot Minotaur who just wants to fix her corn maze.

Kit inherits a crumbling stone courthouse — and the 323-year-old gargoyle who's been guarding it. Seven feet of living limestone, glowing amber eyes, and opinions about her ladder placement.

He stopped being human because grief was easier as an animal. She stopped asking for help because everyone who helped eventually left. He fixed her roof; he stayed because she threw a boot at his head.

She came for the whales, not the Victorian B&B. The only vacancy in town is run by six-foot-eight of gray-skinned, modestly-tusked gentle giant who looks at her like she just rearranged his Tuesday.

Maggie drives to Teakettle Bay to research one cafe for a marketing competition. She takes the barista job instead — for a six-foot-ten, fifteen-years-grumpy orc whose chest did the thing the moment she walked in at 5:43 a.m.