Page 19 of The Minotaur's Valentine

“Milo says you can call him any time. I’d wager mid-morning to late afternoon would be the best.”

“Ah. I’m working then.”

Peterson snorts. “I hope you haven’t had some blow to the head while I was gone, Libby. Are you confusing me with some tyrannical old despot?”

Why would I think he’s a train station? “You mean you don’t mind if I call him between clients?”

“I don’t mind at all. Just keep it brief.”

“Oh, hey, you said he works at the Night Market.”

“I did?” His voice is higher than normal, a sharp spike of surprise in his tone as if he suddenly stepped on a pin. “Did I?”

“I thought so. Does he?”

“Well... yes.”

“Cool. Which stall? I was thinking I’d go there tonight and get my fudge fix. Maybe I’ll say hi.”

“Ah. I’m... I think it’s in the back. He’s a metalworker. Makes things out of metal.”

Peterson fidgets and so do I. Am I coming off so stupid that he thinks I don’t understand what a metalworker is? “Cool. I’m a metalhead.” I wink and laugh at my own lame joke.

“I noticed that. You and Milo have very similar tastes in music.” He looks at me as I hang my sweatshirt on the hook on the back of the office door. It’s too flimsy for this abysmal February weather, but I haven’t owned a real winter coat since I was a kid. I just layer on sweatshirts. “You have the same hoodies.”

“We do?” Wow. The guy is a real metalhead, then. He likes my kinda music, he works with metal (how hardcore is that), and he fosters kittens. I picture some big, tattooed bruiser of a guy with piercings everywhere, sprawled out asleep while thrash metal plays and kittens snooze on his shredded jeans.

It’s dumb to get so curious about a random stranger, right?

“I’ve got to get back to work. Removing a few growths from the Jackson’s beagle. Will you make up the invoice while I start the sterilizer?”

“On it.”

I do mundane office work and enjoyable vet tech work for the rest of the morning. I plan to call Milo when I run to the Pine Loft for my caffeine fix after Poochy, the fifteen-year-old beagle comes out of anesthesia.

My phone buzzes as I finish removing the IV from Poochy’s neatly clipped front leg. After I put the used needle in the red biohazard box on the wall and wash my hands, I see that the text is from Mr. Sex-On-A-Stick, AKA Ricky. AKA “My Date.”

My stomach flutters and my insides give one low-down throb as I remember the way he looked at me while he said he wanted to have a lavish meal on Valentine’s Day.

Yeah. I’m going to be that meal.

Crap, I need to shave my legs. And possibly other things.

That throb is turning into a regular pulsation.

Ricky: Are we still on for the 14th?

Me: Yes. Definitely. Jax Alley.

Ricky: Want me to pick you up at seven?

Me: Sounds good.

Itext my address while breathing unevenly, my breath coming out in tense puffs.

Guy. Guy at my apartment. Sexy guy at my apartment on Valentine’s Day, after we go to the seedy club where there’s good music and pool.

I need a black dress.

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