Page 62 of The Minotaur's Valentine

“Hello, darling!” My mother exclaims. “I was worried about you working in this snowy weather.”

“Oh, I wasn't going to go in tonight, Mom. I didn't go in the last two nights. Well, not for more than a couple of hours,” I say quickly.

But there's no fooling my mother. I don't know if you can fool other kinds of moms, but you definitely cannot fool a Greek minotaur mother who can smell bullshit (no pun intended) from thirty miles away.

“You didn't go to work? Are you hurt? What is wrong? That's not like you.”

“Well, I did go in on Friday night, but I figured there wasn't going to be much point in going last night with the snow so thick on the ground.”

That's a lie and my mother knows it. The Night Market opens in all kinds of weather. If you have your permit, you can set up your stall in a hurricane and no one will stop you. Some of the town’s inhabitants are non-corporeal. Others are already undead, so they don’t mind getting a little wet or cold.

“You didn’t go to work? Your father drove by your house last night. Your truck wasn't there and the house was dark. Where were you?”

Libby makes a noise. I can't tell if she's annoyed because my mother is up in my business or if she is laughing because it sounds like I'm so tied to her apron strings.

I try to sound mature and casual when I answer. “No big deal, Mom. I was on a date.”

There's a moment of complete silence, and then the phone explodes with a lot of high-pitched, bugle-like noises. It’s just my mother. Praising Hera and Aphrodite in archaic Taurosapien Greek.

“Mom. Chill.”

Libby’s definitely laughing, but she’s also kissing the top of my head. I think that means I’m not too much of a dork.

Her laugh is so beautiful—but it’s also a sound that minotaur ears catch.

Mom’s chant to the gods of love and marriage stops. “I heard her voice, Milo! She has a lovely laugh. That is her, with you now, two days in a row? This must be serious. When can I meet her? Is she coming for dinner?”

Crud. Was I supposed to eat dinner with my parents tonight? Sunday dinner is a twice-a-month thing. I can't remember, but it doesn’t matter. Tomorrow the real world it's going to invade, and I'm not going to give up a precious night alone with Libby.

“Oh, Mom, I completely forgot. Libby and I already have plans.”

Shit. Hell. A lot of other curse words that I can't think of when my mother is on the phone. And instantly, when I start thinking of things I shouldn't think with my mother on the phone—all I can feel is the heat between Libby's thighs pressed to the back of my neck. I want her legs wrapped around my neck while I hold her by the hips and drink from her peach like it’s my chalice.

A sudden loft of her scent makes my jeans feel snug, and my tail tip twitches.

Thankfully, my mother doesn't seem to have extrasensory abilities right now. “Libby! What a beautiful name! So adorable, and musical. Is it short for Elizabeth?”

I realize I don’t know.

“Just Libby,” Libby hisses.

“Oh my love, let me speak to her! Hello, Libby, darling! Where did you meet her, Milo?”

“Libby and I met at the Night Market. She and I both fostered kittens from the same litter.” There. That sounds harmless enough.

“How sweet! Libby, dear, you must come for dinner next weekend if you are busy tonight.”

I cross my fingers that Libby will be cool with it. On the other hand, my mother has kind of pushed our relationship ahead to the “meeting the parents stage” pretty damn fast. Sure, that's something I would like, but I don't think Libby will—

“That would be great Mrs. Angelakis! Just tell me what to bring. I'm not much of a cook, but I am learning.”

“You are a sweet girl to offer. How about a dessert? Something simple. It can be a box mix.”

I almost swallow my tongue. My mother must be desperate—or she knows I’m serious. I’ve never had a girl to introduce to them before. Maybe all those little things like being a perfect cook and bringing homemade dishes don’t matter.

“Libby makes great cupcakes,” I brag. We had some yesterday, some yellow fluffy ones covered with pink icing. I think they might have been for her date with Ricky, but I don’t care. He wasn’t the one licking icing off her upper lip.

“Splendid. Your father can never resist cupcakes—or any cakes for that matter. Well, I’ll let you get on with your plans for the afternoon. Milo, one moment when you have time for a private chat?”

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