Page 39 of Mochas and Minotaurs

“I don’t expect you to be. You’re already a successful business owner and a talented witch. Any more perfect, and you’ll be too intimidating.”

“Flatterer!”

Triscuit flinging his set of colorful stackable plastic cups around his cage and cackling like a madman had me cringing. It was cute, though that was dependent on who you asked, but it did not make for a very romantic setting.

“Did you want to meet me up on the rooftop instead? It’s a beautiful evening and it gives me an excuse to use the umbrella heaters.”

“Okay. Be there in twenty? I’m going to try to whip up some dessert too.”

“Dessert?”

“Unless you want to be dessert.” His growled words had me squeezing my legs together.

“Why not both? I’ll see you in twenty.”

Twenty minutes. I was glad I’d already taken a shower after our failed search of the dusty basement. But I’d let my hair air dry and it was a bit of a mess. Clean, but messy. It was also red again because I’d let the magic slide.

I decided not to use too much magic in case I needed it to bolster the wards through another attack.

Gathering a few candles, I ran up to the roof to turn on the heaters and pick up any cups I might have left out there. Then, with the candles in place but unlit, and the heaters warming the place up, I ran back inside and made myself look presentable.

I kept the hair simple, a quick blow dry and sleeking down with a jasmine-scented oil. The only magic I used on my hair was to make it black again. I’d noticed his reaction to it that first day. He liked the red, but loved the black.

I used real makeup instead of magic, focusing on my brows and eyes. I was lucky that my skin had been behaving recently. I stuffed the blood-red lipstick and a compact into my purse for later and chose a nude balm for pre-food lips instead. I wanted a hint of siren without being overdone for an impromptu homemade rooftop dinner.

I took way too long to decide what to wear. It was well below freezing outside but I knew the two umbrella heaters were powerful and put out a surprising amount of heat. I didn’t want to be overdressed if he showed up in sweatpants. But I wanted to look good too.

Then I remembered his reaction when he stepped out onto the roof the other day and saw me in my satin nightie, the red one with a low-cut neckline and a hem that ended barely below my ass. A short dress then. That one was in the laundry, so I dug out a lacy crocheted one I’d made last year.

It technically covered all the essentials, but I’d only ever worn it at home because it was basically see-through. I put that on, and then threw the black robe over it. They were still considered my“house clothes,” so I wouldn’t be overdressed, but they were sexy as hell, especially if I wore a pair of heels with them.

That was one thing I’d promised myself years ago. I didn’t wear ratty clothes at home. I wore sexy clothes that made me feel good, or cute clothes that I loved. Why? Because why should I spend my free time looking, and therefore feeling, like crap?

I stepped out onto the patio with a pitcher of iced tea—I cheated, it was bottled—just in time to see Marcus lighting the candles I’d put out earlier. He looked good. Smelled good too. He’d showered, and the clean scent of the body wash mingled with his natural masculine one. He’d trimmed his facial hair…or was that facial fur?

He’d changed out of his sweatpants from before and now wore a pair of jeans that molded to his muscular legs. A simple black T-shirt finished the outfit. But it wasn’t one of those sloppy, oversized ones. This one was fitted and showcased every ripped muscle. The bumps formed by his nipple rings showed through the fabric.

Dinner was good. Lemon and artichoke chicken on brown rice. Not spectacular, and much healthier than when I cooked. But since Marcus had made it, it automatically got extra bonus points. Dessert was a berry cheesecake protein parfait.

“A protein parfait?” I should stop the dubious tone.

”There’s protein powder in the cream cheese mixture. And I used high-protein granola.”

“I had no idea that even existed. But I’m willing to give it a try.”

“I used real sugar. None of that fake stuff. Maybe it’s my enhanced sense of taste, but I can’t stand sugar substitutes.”

“Oh, it’s not just you,” I assured him.

The cheesecake parfait was surprisingly good. I couldn’t even tell it was high protein.

But as I ate, I realized that Marcus’s attention wasn’t on the dessert at all. It was on me. Over the course of dinner, I’d gotten hot—those umbrella heaters were no joke—and let the robe fall open. He was gawking at the dress underneath, which meant I’d made the right decision.

Putting my dessert down, I leaned back and stretched, putting my legs up across him to rest my feet on his lap. His eyes went to my shoes immediately.

“Fuck, Kitten. You wore those at the club.”

“I did.” Was it a bad idea in the snow? Totally. But I survived. He’d waxed poetic over them, but he’d also been drinking that night.

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