Page 15 of The Minotaur's Valentine

Iwant to text back but stop myself. I don’t want to keep him up a second longer than I have to. It’s after midnight.

What a wonderful boss. Not only that but what a wonderful vet, and what a wonderful role model.

If I hadn’t mentally cast him as my father, I would be crushing on the good doctor right now.

As it is... I find my groggy brain slipping toward my date with Ricky.

I’m not too sick for a little fantasy about having that gorgeous guy pull his ladykiller act on me. Wine me, dine me, seduce me, fuck me...

Hm.

It could be the cold, but my libido refuses to cooperate.

In college, I had a few casual encounters with a guy I considered a friend. It was a rite of passage thing, on my terms. Beer and cuddling in my dorm for too long led to both of us deciding to have a no-pressure, purely physical thing.

It was okay.

I imagine Ricky will be way better than that in bed (or at least in the romancing and seducing categories), but it will still be just another casual encounter if I can trust Peterson— which I do.

With a sigh, I sink back on the pillows I’ve propped up to try and help with this post-nasal situation.

I know one of my goals is to make a life for myself here, including socializing and dating, but...

“I don’t want to just date for the sake of dating. I want a relationship.”

I can say these words aloud when no one else is around to hear them.

“Is anyone going to want a stray like me?”

Chapter Sixteen: Milo

Ididn’t know I was going to bring kittens home when I left my place this evening. It’s a little rancher just on the other side of the woods, heading out of town toward Jax Alley, this dive bar that is the unofficial edge of monster-friendly Pine Ridge.

My house is a simple post-war stucco with two bedrooms and a bath that I had modified. It’s got two acres and a fenced-in lawn. It’s a great place that’s secluded yet residential, comfortable but functional. What it is not is kitten-proof.

“Stay there! Sharp things! Sharp things!” I hop around (which isn’t great for the framed records and the twelve-string that I have hanging on the wall) the kittens, who have now had a dose of warm milk replacer and a bowl of kitten chow in the back of my truck and are no longer content to sit in my cooler. They roll out and mew and get under my hooves. This causes more hopping and lots of cursing as I try not to kill the adorable gray balls of fur I rescued.

They don’t listen. They don’t seem to realize they shouldn’t roam around in a room with a minotaur who has hooves the size of hubcaps and a penchant for sharp objects.

I put everything down and scoop them up.

Also a mistake.

One of them is a very chill little dude (or lady cat, I don’t know for sure). He drapes himself over my arm in the crook of my elbow. Cute, but inconvenient. The other kitten is alert and curious, with more of the wild left in him. He scales me like a bulky mountain and sits on my head, claiming the broad flat space between my horns. “Neither of you have good survival skills, that’s all I’m saying,” I huff. Tiny, needle-like claws start to knead my head. “Sorry! I take it back.” I wrench Mr. Curious off of my head and sit him next to his sibling. “You need names. And you need to put on a few pounds.” I could see the notches of their spines and the hollows under their ribs, especially since they weren’t completely dry yet. “I’m going to make you a bed and a litter box. I’ll get actual litter tomorrow, but for tonight, newspaper will have to do, okay? I don’t know anything about kittens, so you’ll have to forgive me if I screw up.”

My audience has dozed off again. I guess I’m comfy. I’m at least warm and furry. Maybe I remind them of their mother.

I have a routine when I get home, but tonight I ditch it. I take the kittens and plop on the couch. (It’s a reinforced couch, made by locals who understand that furniture in Pine Ridge may have to serve an unusual population.) I click on the television and ignore it.

So many scenarios race through my head as I sprawl out, listening to soft, surprisingly loud purrs.

I’ll be the crazy old cat-minotaur. I see myself in a cardigan full of holes with cans of tuna in my pockets, shuffling around while my glasses fall down my nose. I’ll be half-deaf, so I’ll bellow, “Here, kitty, kitty! Din-Dins!” My flock of strays and house cats will come running.

If it weren’t so pathetic, it would be funny.

Then there’s the next scenario. I get these kittens fluffed up and fed in a week. I show up at Libby’s apartment, wherever it is, and stand in the shadows of her stairwell. (What if she lives on the ground floor, doofus?) I hold out a basket of adorable fluffiness. In my vision, the kittens sit still and adorable like a Hallmark card come to life. I have flowers behind my back. “For you, my lady,” I say in a smooth, deep voice that drives women wild. (I have no previous history of driving the females of Pine Ridge mad. Why do I see myself as a cross between Casanova and the Phantom of the fucking Opera?)

But in my vision, Libby swoons with delight, rushing out to grab the basket and peering into the darkness. “Won’t you come in? You’re my hero. You saved the kittens! How can I ever repay you?”

---