Page 27 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. Then: “I’m sorry, you want me to do what now?”
“Raphael deserves a chance to tell his side of the story instead of letting people make assumptions based on rumors.”
“Frankie…” Sage’s voice takes on the careful tone she uses when she thinks I’m about to make a mistake. “Are you sure about this? I mean, what’s your connection to him exactly?”
I look at Raphael, seeing the way his ears are pricked forward as he follows my side of the conversation. “Let’s just say I have a vested interest in making sure he gets fair treatment.”
Another pause. “Please tell me you’re not—”
“Can you do the interview or not?”
I can practically hear her journalistic instincts warring with her concern for me. Finally, she sighs. “Okay, but if we’re doing this, maybe I should come to his place. Keep things quiet until we see how the story plays.”
“No.” The word comes out more firmly than I intended. “I want you to do it at the Gazette office. Downtown. During business hours.”
“Why would you want—” She stops, understanding dawning in her voice. “Frankie, are you sure you want to be seen publiclywith him? Because once people know you two are… whatever you are… there’s no taking it back.”
“I’m sure,” I say, watching Raphael’s expression shift as he realizes what I’m proposing. “When can you do it?”
“This afternoon? Say, two o’clock? That’ll give me time to prepare some questions and clear it with my editor.”
“Perfect. We’ll see you then.”
I hang up and turn to find Raphael staring at me with an unreadable expression. His tail has gone still behind him, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his dark eyes.
“You want to be seen with me publicly,” he says. “Now. This soon.”
“That was always part of our arrangement,” I remind him. “You helping me with my apiaries, me helping you with your reputation.”
“But this is different. This is you choosing to walk into the center of town with me, letting everyone know that you’re…” He trails off, as if he’s not sure what to call what we are.
“That I’m what?”
“Mine,” he says quietly, a possessive rumble in his voice.
It feels different when he says it now, like it goes far beyond our three-month agreement. Because somewhere in the past few days, this has stopped being just an arrangement, hasn’t it? The way he held me last night, the protectiveness in his voice when he talked about Tom’s comments, the way my heart races whenhe looks at me like I’m his—none of that was supposed to be part of the deal.
“Yes,” I whisper, and the admission feels like stepping off a cliff. “I want them to know I chose you.”
His control slips for just a moment as his tail lashes behind him. Then he moves closer, closing the distance until I’m standing in the shadow of his broad chest, my head barely reaching his collarbone as I strain to look up at him.
“Do you understand what you’re risking?” he asks. “Your reputation, your standing in the community…”
“Do you understand that I don’t care?” I counter. “Maybe it’s time I made some choices that are just for me.”
The truth of it surprises me as I say it. For so long, I’ve been the good girl, the responsible one, the town sweetheart who never causes waves. But standing here with this powerful, dangerous, gentle beast, I realize I’m ready to be something else. Someone else.
“We should get ready,” I say, stepping back before the tension between us can pull me under completely. “If we’re doing this, we might as well do it right.”
An hour later,Raphael parks his massive black SUV in front of the Sunnybrook Gazette office, and I take a steadying breath as I watch people on the sidewalk slow their pace to stare. The drive into town was quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts about what this interview might accomplish. Now, stepping out of his vehicle in the heart of downtown, I’m acutely aware of every stare, every conversation that stops mid-sentence as we make our way down the sidewalk.
Raphael moves beside me with careful control, his hooves clopping on the ground despite his obvious efforts to walk quietly. He’s dressed in dark slacks and a crisp white button-down that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, looking every inch the successful businessman he is. But there’s no hiding the beast beneath the clothes, with horns curving from his temples, forcing him to duck slightly to avoid hanging signs that even the tallest man can walk under.
“Having second thoughts?” I murmur as we approach the newspaper office.
“About the interview? No.” He glances down at me, and there’s something fierce in his dark eyes. “About letting you risk your reputation for mine? Constantly.”
“Too late now,” I say, nodding toward the window where I can see Sage setting up her recording equipment. “Besides, I have a good feeling about this.”
