Page 54 of The Minotaur's Valentine

But that’s what I want. I want Libby to work and do all the things she wants, but I also want to bring her home with me, have her move in with me, and make her a throne where she can sit, preferably wearing nothing but a gauzy white toga and jewels.

Or nothing but the jewels. Maybe she could sit naked on that throne, her legs over the armrests, while I kneel in front of her and bury my face in her tight little—

“Milo? You’re breathing heavily, and I think you’re crimping my counter.”

I release the counter edge at once. “I’m dreaming about spoiling you.” When I say the words aloud, the throne imagery vanishes (but I hope it’ll come back later) and instead, I just want her to be curled up on my couch, the kittens in her lap, while I put my arm around her.

“Well, you don’t need to spoil me more than you already have,” Libby says with a bright smile.

This is spoiling? All I’ve done is cook her food that she already owned. “Libby, when I say spoil, I mean... like... Don’t laugh at me, please?”

“Oh, no! Milo, I wouldn’t laugh.” Libby puts down the carton of orange juice with a worried look. “I would never laugh at you.”

“What I’d really love to do—is do all the nice little things guys do for Valentine’s, but all across the year. Like bring you all of your favorite things and do lots of thoughtful stuff every day.”

“Honey, look, cards and flowers—”

“No. Like when I see a sweatshirt from a band you like, buy it. Carry in your groceries. Cook you dinner a couple nights a week. Buy you coffee and bring it to you when your shift is ending and mine is starting. See? It’s normal, everyday stuff. But I really think it’s important. It’s like the modern-day version of making sure you’re provided for. My ancestors helped guard Queen Pasiphae and her children by making sure they had food in the labyrinth and making sure a guard was posted at all times. They made sure her sons learned to fight and her daughters learned to weave.”

Libby is looking at me in a strange way. I can’t tell if she’s freaked out or fascinated.

“Thank you for not laughing,” I mumble. At least she kept her promise.

Libby twists her hands and sits down at the small table in the cubby of her apartment that passes for the dining room. “I’d like all of that. A lot. It’s just... scary.”

I barely manage to put the plates and bowls on the table. I’m scary? Oh, God. I’m a monster. (I mean, I know that, but I don’t usually feel like one.)

“Not you, Milo. Being cared for. Look, baggage time. My mom had me when she was a teenager and spent the rest of her life working as a teacher or teacher’s assistant at daycare centers. It’s a job where you can have steady pay and bare-bones benefits without a college degree. She never got child support or help from her parents. It was just her and me.” Libby’s voice trembles, rattling the bars on the cage of my self-control. I want to roar and bellow and find the people who left her stranded without support. And then...

Well. These horns aren’t just for decoration.

“So, I grew up in the slums. I got good grades because I wasn’t allowed to get into trouble and I didn’t have expensive games and crap to play with. Plus, my mom was smart. She wanted to be a teacher. She would have been a great one if she had been able to go to school.”

“Libby—”

“Wait. It’s hard to talk about, so let me get it all out at once. Mom didn’t take good care of herself. She never went to the doctor. We couldn’t afford it. If I was really, really sick she took me, but she never went. Not even for routine stuff.”

Libby’s eyes are wet and they stay focused on the pile of sunny yellow eggs in front of her. “She had breast cancer and lung cancer. She smoked a lot when she was in her teens and twenties. It was her one bad habit, and she quit over time, but... yeah. Doctors couldn’t tell us if she had cancer in her lungs that moved to her breast or cancer in her breast that moved to her lungs, but it didn't matter. They caught it late because my mom wouldn’t get checked out. She only found out six months before she died. That was during my junior year of college. At least we had that summer together...” Libby prodded the eggs with her fork and didn’t eat them.

I don’t care if she wants to be strong and not be held. I need to hold her. I scoot off my chair (the poor thing can barely support my weight) and wrap my arms around her while I kneel next to her.

“Look, at least I had a great mom. I don’t need pity.”

“I’m not pitying. I’m just sad.”

Libby rests her head on mine in silence. With a shaking sigh, she starts speaking again, “I get along just fine. I don’t need a man to take care of me.”

“I know.” I do know. “I understand that. Can’t I just do it because I— because I love you? Isn’t that the best reason to care for someone? And if your mother were here, would she tell you not to let me be nice to you?” I snort indignantly. “I didn’t know her, but if she was anything like you are, I’m pretty sure she’d tell me off if I was a crappy boyfriend who mooched off of you.”

That makes her smile. “Damn straight she would. She told me not to count on men.”

“Well... what did she say about minotaurs? Because we’re not quite the same.” I play the species card shamelessly. “My parents would disown me if I didn’t lavish love, attention, and groceries on my girlfriend. They would say I was failing as a minotaur and disgracing the name of Angelakis.”

Libby purses her lips and crosses her arms.

I may have pushed too far. I begin preparing my backpedal when she sighs.

“We can’t have that. Fine. You’re allowed to spoil me, but only if it’s mutual.”

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