Page 20 of The Minotaur's Valentine

I have a lot of black in my wardrobe.

But I don’t know how to be sexy.

Aunt Karen’s school of thought on the matter included leopard-print spandex, a can of ultra hair volumizer, a spray tan that made her look like a fucking tangerine, and false eyelashes that could be a stunt double for a tarantula.

I don’t even have a girlfriend I can ask for advice.

I definitely can’t ask Peterson.

Okay, Libby. Sex with a guy who obviously wants to put the moves on you isn’t rocket science. Just be fresh, clean, and have some protection handy.

And maybe a thong.

I’m going to have to drive to the mall and go to the clearance bins at Bella’s Boudoir. That’s where all the completely uncomfortable, tiny, sexy underwear live.

Should I wear that on the date, or change into it when we get back?

I groan. The mechanics of dating suck.

I need coffee and Poochy is awake, blinking up at me with big, liquid brown eyes, his tail tapping lightly against the plaid blanket in the kennel. Across the way, Mama Cat snoozes on her back while her kittens pile on top of her in a furry black pyramid. All is well with the world.

But not in my wardrobe.

“I’ll be back in half an hour, Doc!” I call into the exam room.

“Have a scone on me!”

“Will do!” I rush out with the nagging feeling that I was supposed to do something important.

Chapter Twenty: Milo

She didn’t call. Maybe she changed her mind about the kitten. That’ll be fine. Freddy and Felix can stay together.

But they could have stayed together anyway if we were dating.

My heart needs a distraction. Work.

I hate leaving the boys alone, but I’m not bringing them with me to work. It’s freezing, and with Valentine’s just a few days away, it’s going to be busy. I have orders for Leo and Robbie to pick up, and I have a line of “sweetheart daggers” on special for the holiday. They’re dual blades, and they’re dangerous. Each dagger is short, with only a four-inch blade. Twin silver and hickory blades compress to hide a narrow iron spike in between. What’s the point of a wooden blade?

Vampires.

Iron for evil fae and malevolent spirits.

Silver for werebeasts.

Why do I call them sweetheart daggers? Well—

“Uh. Hi. Ooooh. Hi.”

I turn to face my customers and see two teenage guys in NYU Pine Ridge athletic wear and knit caps. Their eyes are glued to my face as the color washes out of theirs.

“Can I help you?” I try to make my voice as light and pleasant as possible. It still sounds like I could sing the entire bass line of The Call of Ktulu without straining.

“W-we heard that y-you sell something better than mace.”

“Mhm.” I nod, but I keep the daggers under their velvet wrap.

“We have some friends—”

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