Page 23 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
He looks up from where he’s organizing my beekeeping manuals, his dark eyes attentive. “What?”
“My bees. They’re next door, but if I’m living here and helping you with whatever this arrangement involves…” I gesture around the luxurious bedroom. “How am I supposed to maintain them? Run my honey business? The farmers market is on Saturdays and Sundays. I usually do Saturdays, sometimes Sundays if I have extra stock to move, so that’s just one or two days. But the hives need regular maintenance throughout the week. Daily checks, weekly inspections, honey harvests that can take entire days.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says immediately, setting down the book he’s holding. “I’m not asking you to give up your livelihood for this.”
“But realistically, I can’t be in two places at once. And if we’re supposed to be seen together, establish this relationship publicly…” I run my hands through my hair, suddenly seeingall the complications I hadn’t considered. “The bees won’t understand that I have other obligations now.”
“Then we’ll hire help. Someone who knows bees, who can handle the day-to-day maintenance while you focus on other things.” He moves closer, his massive frame casting a shadow over where I sit. “Someone you trust.”
I blink at him. “You’d pay for that?”
“Of course. This is part of our arrangement: I solve your problems, and you help me solve mine.” His tone is matter-of-fact, like spending money on my business is the most natural thing in the world. “Do you have someone in mind?”
“Actually, yes.” I think about it, relief flooding through me as a solution presents itself. “Tom Brennan. He’s a freelance handyman who’s helped me and Grandma Rose before during busy seasons. He knows the operation, understands bee behavior, and he has flexibility in his schedule for additional work.”
Something shifts in Raphael’s expression when I mention another man’s name. It’s subtle—a slight tensing of his shoulders, the way his hands curl into loose fists before he consciously relaxes them. His nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, and I realize with a start that he’s having some kind of territorial reaction.
“Tom,” he repeats carefully, his voice neutral but with an undercurrent I can’t quite identify. “Not sure I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him.”
“He’s reliable,” I continue, studying his reaction with growing interest. This possessive response should probably concern me—we barely know each other, after all—but instead it gives me a little thrill. “He’s been helping local farmers for years. Grandma Rose trusted him completely, and that’s not something she gave lightly.”
Raphael nods slowly, and I can see him wrestling with whatever instincts are telling him to object to another man spending time on my property, around my things. But to his credit, he doesn’t voice those concerns or demand details about my relationship with Tom.
“If you trust him, that’s good enough for me,” he says finally, and I can hear the effort it takes him to mean it.
The fact that he doesn’t question me further, doesn’t let his obvious discomfort override his respect for my judgment, says a lot, and I reach out to give his forearm a little rub.
“I’ll call him this afternoon,” I say. “Set up a meeting for tomorrow so I can give him the key and go over everything.”
“Good.” He looks down at my hand on his arm, moves to touch it, then seems to decide otherwise. “Whatever you need to make this work.”
The conversation with Tom goesmore smoothly than I expected. He doesn’t ask too many questions when I explain that I have new business arrangements taking up more of my time, and just agrees to start Monday morning. We arrange to meet at the apiaries tomorrow afternoon so I can give him the spare key to the equipment shed and go over the weekly maintenance schedule.
“You sure you’re not taking on too much, Frankie?” he asks, genuine concern evident in his weathered voice. Tom’s always been protective of the local farmers, especially the younger ones trying to make it work. “I know things have been tight since Rose passed. If you need to talk through any problems…”
“I’m figuring it out,” I assure him, touched by his worry. “This will actually help with the financial pressure, give me some breathing room to focus on growing the business.”
“Well, you know I’m happy to help however I can. Rose was good to my family when we were struggling with Sarah’s medical bills. The least I can do is return the favor.”
When I hang up, Raphael emerges from his home office where he’d been handling business calls. Even in casual clothes—dark jeans and a button-down shirt—he looks imposing, his massive frame filling the doorway.
“All set?” he asks.
“All set. Tom will start Monday morning.” I lean against the kitchen counter, still marveling at the size of everything in this house. The island alone is bigger than my entire kitchen at the farmhouse. “Thank you for making this possible. I know hiring help wasn’t part of our original deal.”
“As I said, we’re helping each other.” He moves closer, and I catch that meadow scent that clings to his skin. “Besides, I want you to succeed. This arrangement only works if you’re not stressed about everything falling apart.”
By evening, we’re both clearly aware that we’re about to take the final step that will cement our arrangement. The domestic afternoon of unpacking and planning has created a strange sense of normalcy, but underneath it all is the electric awareness that tonight we’ll be sharing a bed.
We order dinner from Casa Miguel, a local Mexican place I’ve always loved, and when the food arrives forty minutes later, I notice how the delivery driver’s eyes widen at seeing my distinctive blue pickup parked in Raphael’s circular driveway. The kid can’t be more than nineteen, probably a student at the community college, but I can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to process why the town beekeeper’s truck is at the minotaur’s mansion.
“Word’s probably going to get around,” I observe as we unpack containers of enchiladas verdes and fresh guacamole at the enormous dining table.
“Let it,” Raphael says simply, spooning rice onto his plate. “People will find out eventually.”
He’s right. It’s just once the cat’s out of the bag… there really will be no turning back.
The food is delicious, and we eat by candlelight in his formal dining room. The space is intimidating with its crystal chandelier and oil paintings, but somehow having takeoutcontainers scattered across the polished mahogany makes it feel a little more inviting.
