Page 54 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
Frankie
Three weeks after Lysander’s arrest,I wake up to the sound of power tools and someone swearing creatively. Not exactly the peaceful morning I’d been hoping for.
“Christ,” Raphael mutters against my hair, his voice still rough with sleep. “What time did they start?”
I squint at the clock on his nightstand. “Six-thirty. Tom said they wanted to get the roof beams up before the heat hits.”
Raphael’s arm tightens around me, and I can feel his reluctance to leave the warmth of our bed. After all this time sharing his space, I’ve learned that my eight-foot minotaur is decidedly not a morning person, despite his corporate background.
“Five more minutes,” he grumbles, his nose cold against my neck as he tries to burrow deeper under the covers.
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“And I meant it then too.”
I laugh despite myself, pushing against his chest with zero real effort to escape. His fur is soft and warm beneath my palms, and the steady thrum of his heartbeat is more effective than any snooze button at making me want to stay exactly where I am.
But the construction noise outside is getting louder, and I can hear Tom’s voice cutting through the general chaos with military precision. The honey processing facility we’re building on Raphael’s property isn’t going to finish itself.
“Come on, beast,” I say, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Your tenants are going to think you’re a lazy landlord.”
That gets him moving. Raphael has rented space to four other beekeeping families at rates so low they’re practically free. The processing facility is meant to serve the town, providing a shared space where all local beekeepers can extract, filter, and bottle honey without having to crowd into residential kitchens or pay premium rates at commercial facilities three towns over.
His idea is practical. Efficient. And absolutely nothing like the corporate raider the town originally feared.
By the time we make it outside with coffee for the crew, the building has taken on a recognizable shape. Tom directs operations with the quiet authority of someone who’s been building things since before I was born, while a handful of local contractors work with focused intensity.
“Looking good,” I tell Tom as he accepts a black coffee with calloused hands.
“Should be. Your man here didn’t cheap out on materials.” Tom’s weathered face shows grudging approval as he looks toward Raphael, who’s examining the foundation work with the same attention to detail he probably once brought to hostile takeovers. “Quality lumber, proper insulation, commercial-grade electrical. This thing’ll outlast all of us.”
It’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever heard Tom give about anything, and I catch the way Raphael’s shoulders straighten slightly at the words.
“The extraction room’s going to be perfect,” I say, walking through the framed-out space. Large windows will provide natural light, and the design includes proper ventilation and easy-to-clean surfaces. “Mrs. Henderson is already asking when she can book time. She’s becoming a bit of an amateur beekeeper. Her hive is tiny, but determined.”
“That woman,” Tom snorts, shaking his head. “Forty years I’ve been fixing things around her place, and she’s never once admitted she might need help. Now she’s practically planning to move her whole operation over here.”
The shift in Mrs. Henderson’s attitude has been one of the more surprising developments. After Lysander’s party, she’d approached Raphael with the kind of straightforward directness that only comes with age and the realization that life’s too short for bullshit.
“You saved my life,” she’d said simply. “And you didn’t have to. That means something.”
Now she’s one of the facility’s most enthusiastic supporters, spreading word to other small-scale producers and evenoffering to help coordinate scheduling once we’re operational. I definitely don’t mind the help.
By noon, the roof beams are in place and the crew breaks for lunch. I’m packing up an empty donut box when Patty Williams appears at the edge of the construction site, carrying a cooler that probably weighs more than she does.
“Thought you boys might be hungry,” she calls out, her voice carrying that particular brand of maternal authority that makes grown men line up like schoolchildren.
The cooler turns out to be filled with sandwiches, cold drinks, and what looks like half the inventory from her bakery. The crew descends on it with grateful enthusiasm, and I watch Patty beam with satisfaction as her food disappears.
“This is really something,” she says to me, gesturing toward the building. “When it’s finished, I mean. Going to change things for a lot of families.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Good.” Her expression turns thoughtful as she watches Raphael discussing something with one of the contractors, his massive frame somehow managing not to loom despite the significant height difference. “You know, I wasn’t sure about him at first. About any of this, really. I’m glad to have been proven wrong.”
The afternoon passes quickly, with steady progress on the electrical work and interior framing. By late afternoon, we’re looking at something that genuinely resembles a functional building rather than an ambitious pile of lumber.
“Two more weeks,” Tom announces as the crew packs up their tools. “Maybe less if the inspectors don’t drag their feet.”
