Page 58 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
“Again?” Raphael rumbles, pretending to consider this seriously. “I don’t know. Mama might think we’re getting too wild before breakfast.”
“Mama likes wild!” Mason announces with the confidence of a child who’s never been wrong about anything.
I snort into my coffee and call out, “Mama likes her fence posts intact.”
“See?” Raphael says to Mason. “Your mother has very specific opinions about property damage.”
“But the chickens are being mean,” Mason explains with the gravity of someone reporting a national emergency. “They keep taunting me.”
“How so?” I ask, walking down the porch steps to join them.
“Well, like… bawk bawk BAWK!” He demonstrates with exaggerated arm flapping. “I think they’re saying I’m chicken!”
Raphael and I exchange a look over our son’s head.
“Well,” Raphael says seriously, “don’t you think that they’re bawking because they’re chickens and that’s the noise chickens make?”
Mason frowns and thinks about it, before letting out a long, “Oh… I never thought about that.”
Raphael sets him down, and Mason immediately races toward the apiaries, probably to inform the bees about the chicken situation. The bees adore him, which would be concerning if I didn’t trust them implicitly. They’ve never stung him once, even when he sticks his chubby fingers directly into their hives.
“He’s going to be trouble when he gets older,” I observe, watching our son attempt to climb onto one of the hive stands.
“He’s trouble now,” Raphael points out, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “But he’s the kind of trouble I don’t mind.”
We stand there for a moment, watching Mason explain something very important to the bees while gesturing wildly with his small hands. The morning sun shines through the oak trees that border our property, casting dappled shadows across the expanded apiaries that now stretch in all directions.
The business has grown beyond anything I imagined when I was facing foreclosure six years ago. Our honey is sold in specialty stores across California, and the annual Bee & Bloom Festival we host in the oak grove draws visitors from three states.
“Speaking of trouble,” Raphael murmurs against my ear, his voice dropping to that gravelly tone that still makes my knees weak, “Mason is going to Sage’s house for a sleepover tonight.”
“Is he now?” I try to sound casual, but my pulse is already picking up. “And how exactly did you arrange that?”
“I may have mentioned to Sage that we haven’t had alone time in three weeks, and she may have immediately volunteered to take him for the night.”
“Three weeks and two days,” I correct. “Not that I’m counting.”
“I’m counting.” His hands slide down to rest on my hips, thumbs tracing small circles that make me want to forget about morning chores entirely. “I’m also planning.”
“Planning what?”
“You’ll see.”
Before I can prod further, Mason appears at my side, tugging on my jeans. “Mama, Dad promised me earlier that we’ll have pancakes after checking the hives. And, well, I checked them and they’re all good!”
“Is that so?” I give Raphael a side-eye, before relenting. “Well, if he promised…”
We head inside, where Raphael starts setting up the kitchen with ingredients. As I mix pancake batter, I watch Raphael keep Mason occupied with setting up the table.
The domestic scene feels surreal sometimes. Six years ago, I was a desperate woman facing foreclosure, and he was a wealthy recluse hiding from his past. Now we’re making pancakes while our son carefully sets the table.
Mason arranges each fork with the precision of a tiny perfectionist, his tongue poking out in concentration. “Three forks, three plates, three cups,” he counts solemnly.
“Good job, buddy,” Raphael says, ruffling Mason’s little mane.
As we sit down to eat, Mason chatters about his plans with Aunt Sage—building blanket forts and staying up past bedtime. I catch Raphael’s eye across the table, and he gives me that look that still makes my heart skip.
After breakfast, we walk Mason out to the car where Sage is waiting, her car loaded with enough snacks and activities for a week-long adventure rather than one night.
