Page 22 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“I doubt anything about you is boring, little bee.”
The nickname makes my stomach flutter, but I push the feeling aside. I need to get better control of my reactions if we’re going to live together for three months without me spontaneously combusting every time he speaks.
When we reach his bedroom—our bedroom now, I suppose—I’m struck again by the sheer size of everything. The four-posterbed could sleep a family of four, crafted from dark wood that matches the rest of the furniture. Heavy curtains frame windows that stretch nearly floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of the valley below. The walk-in closet is bigger than my entire bedroom at the farmhouse, and the en-suite bathroom looks like something from a luxury hotel.
“I cleared out half the closet while you were packing your things,” he says, setting my box on the mahogany dresser with careful precision. “Use whatever space you need.”
I peek into the walk-in space and nearly laugh. Half his closet is still enormous, with more hanging space than I could ever fill. His expensive suits occupy one side; charcoal and navy wool, crisp white dress shirts… No shoes, though that’s no surprise. I suspect he always goes hoof-footed.
I hang my simple sundresses and work clothes on the other side, the contrast almost comical. My faded cotton and denim looks shabby next to his pristine wardrobe, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.
I glance out to see he’s unpacking my framed photos with surprising gentleness for such massive hands, looking at each of them with a sort of reverence.
The photos are a mix of family memories and farm life: Grandma Rose in her garden, the apiaries in full bloom, candid shots of the farmers market. When he gets to my favorite picture of Grandma Rose laughing among her sunflowers, her weathered hands dirty with soil and her gray hair escaping its bun, he pauses.
“She looks like she was full of life,” he observes.
“She was. Stubborn as a mule and twice as fierce when she needed to be.” I join him by the dresser, touching the frame gently. The photo captures everything I loved about her.
He pauses, then asks tentatively, “What about your parents?”
I force a smile. “Oh, well, they aren’t the picture-taking types.”
“Ah.”
I continue, “They didn’t care much for country life, so my parents moved to the city when I was young. They’re more practical people. They wanted me to have a proper corporate career, not get my hands dirty with farming.”
“But you chose this life anyway.” He arranges the photo carefully among the others, making sure each one has the perfect angle.
“I did. All those summers I spent here with Grandma Rose… This felt more like home than anywhere else.” I watch him handle my belongings with such care, like each piece matters. “I spent years in corporate consulting before I finally admitted I was miserable and came back to take over the farm.”
His dark eyes study my face with interest. “That’s not so different from my story.” He’s quiet for a moment, carefully positioning another frame before continuing, “What did your parents think when you left consulting?”
“They thought I’d lost my mind. Still do, probably.” I laugh, but there’s an edge to it. “They love me, but they don’t understand why I’d choose this life over a corner office and steady salary. They keep waiting for me to ‘come to my senses’ and move back to the city.”
“But you’re happier here.”
“Much.” I move to the bathroom, arranging my oils and homemade skincare products on his marble counter. The lavender and honey scents are already making the space feel more familiar. “Even with all the financial stress, even with the uncertainty… I can’t imagine going back to that life.”
We work together unpacking the rest of my belongings, and I’m continually touched by how carefully he handles everything. When we get to Grandma Rose’s vintage quilt—the one she spent six months hand-stitching for my eighteenth birthday—he treats it like it’s crafted from the most delicate silk.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, running one thick finger along the intricate patterns. The quilt is a riot of blues and yellows, made from fabric scraps she’d been collecting for years. “Your grandmother made this?”
“Every stitch by hand.” I help him spread it across the foot of his enormous bed, smoothing out the few wrinkles from packing.
Something shifts in his expression as he studies the quilt, his thumb brushing over the quilted roses, feeling each careful stitch that holds the layers together. “You were close with her.”
“Very close. She was more like a mother to me than a grandmother, really.” I arrange my books on his shelf, pleased to see he’s made room between his leather-bound classics and business texts. “She taught me everything. How to read the bees, how to harvest honey without getting stung, how to make the perfect pie crust…”
“She sounds like she was quite a woman.”
“Much like your grandmother.”
He smiles softly as his ears twitch thoughtfully. “Another thing we have in common.”
We’re quiet for a moment as we realize how we’ve both been shaped by strong women who are no longer here to guide us through life’s complications.
“Raphael?” I say, settling on the edge of the bed. The mattress is so thick and plush that I sink into it slightly. “I just realized something about the logistics of this arrangement.”
