Page 29 of The Minotaur's Valentine

Parenting is a selfless task, isn’t it? But I can’t bear to think of either of them sitting alone all day or night, missing the other one. They’ve already been rejected by their mom and lost their other litter mates. They need each other. Wherever they go, I want them to go together—and I hope Libby gets back to me and says that’s a possibility!

Felix and Freddy seem to know that this is it. They curled up and snuggled into me while I slept last night, and now that I’m awake, they are not leaving my side.

Peterson never did tell me if they’re impacted by Bog Cat genetics. My guess is they have a little dose. Or are all cats this intuitive?

As the work of crafting and shaping metal winds down for the day, I pull the kittens off of my head (where they want to perch, wrapping around my horns and dangling into the hood of my sweatshirt) and I start packing up, turning off the roaring furnace, downing the tools, ceasing the clank of metal on metal—and my personal playlist of Metal’s Greatest Love Songs.

As I pack my cooler, I see the phone still on my kitchen counter, flashing a dozen notifications. I scroll through the texts and a grin tugs at my lips.

My parents, wishing me a Happy Valentine’s Day.

Leo, telling me Tessa loves her present.

Robbie, telling me Charlotte loves her present.

My brother, sending me stupid chocolate memes.

A voicemail.

Libby’s voice fills the air. I slap the phone on speaker as I raid the fridge and prepare a batch of kitten formula. Hey, Milo. You’re so sweet. I’d love to take both kittens. Could you drop them off around ten, on your—”

An electronic voice cuts Libby off. “Message erased. There are no more messages in your mailbox. To return the message sender’s call, press—”

I stand up so fast that I gouge a hole in an innocent cucumber on the top shelf of the fridge. “What! Huh?” I push bits of broken, punctured cucumber off my horn with a snort and glare over my shoulder.

Felix and Freddy are prowling on the counter, walking with their little cat paws all over everything—including the screen of my phone. “Dudes! You deleted her message!”

“Mrowr?”

“Mrp?”

Damn them. This is why babies are so adorable. They destroy your life, your budget, your sleep—and you want to love them and protect them forever. And these are just cats! “Oh, well,” I sigh. At least I heard the important part. Libby can take them both, and she wants to get together on my lunch break.

Holy crap. It’s kind of a Valentine’s lunch date then.

No. No.

But why not? I’ll be at the Night Market for a couple of hours. I can get a bouquet, some fudge (I know she likes her fudge), and then I’ll grab the boys and surprise her.

I completely refuse to acknowledge the fact that this is all going to blow up in my face. For almost two dozen years, I’ve been solid, stolid, practical Milo. Milo the sturdy, single one. All the fantasies I have are in my head, and I never let my dreams come out. I don’t know why Libby has unlocked so much longing in me, but when I think of her I almost believe that I can be someone’s hero, someone’s safe place.

To hell with it. For one night in my life—I’m going to pretend.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Libby

Milo texted back that he’d see me soon. I’m glad he got the message.

But I’m thinking about a different kind of pussy at the moment—one that’s pouting, pink, carefully trimmed, and uncontrollably wet from the slightest thoughts of Ricky—or when I listen to Milo’s message.

I’m a loner with trust issues. This means that one particularly hungry piece of my anatomy hasn’t had much chance to play, but now I’m lying on my bed, listening to Milo’s message again.

He says kittens, and I wish I could freeze that moment, that soundbite.

I picture him touching me, calling me his little kitten, and suddenly, two fingers are inside, sliding and flying, pounding my snatch until I swear I see stars and my thighs jump.

What the actual fuck?

It’s like someone spiked me with aphrodisiacs.

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