Page 8 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
Frankie nods, and we continue on until we reach the tea room. There, she stops short in the doorway.
Unlike most of the house, this room is warm and lived-in, with afternoon sunlight streaming through lace curtains and illuminating the dozens of delicate teacups displayed in glass cases along the walls.
“A tea room,” she says, moving closer to examine a particularly ornate set painted with tiny roses. “I definitely didn’t expect this…”
“The teacups belonged to my grandmother. In fact, I made sure this entire room was a perfect replica of her old tea room, just as I remembered it.” I watch Frankie’s face as she studies the collection, noting how carefully she holds her hands behind her back to avoid accidentally touching anything. I hesitate before continuing, “She raised me and my brother after my parents died. Taught me that minotaurs don’t have to behave like bulls in a china shop.”
Frankie goes very quiet at that, her expression growing distant.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I was close to my grandmother too.” Her voice is soft, wistful. “My property—it was hers. The apiaries, the farmhouse, everything. She built it over sixty years.”
“And now it’s yours.”
“For three more months.” The bitterness in her voice surprises me. “Unless I can come up with forty-three thousand dollars.”
I already know the exact amount, and have known since my real estate contacts first mentioned the upcoming foreclosure. But hearing her say it, seeing the defeat in her shoulders, makes something protective and possessive rise in my chest.
“How did you know about it?” she asks suddenly, those hazel eyes sharpening as they focus on me. “About the foreclosure.”
“Word gets around in the real estate world when properties are about to become available.” I keep my voice neutral, though the truth is more complicated than that. I’ve been tracking every piece of land in Sunnybrook for months, waiting for opportunities to protect this place from the very developers who used to pay my consulting fees.
“So you’re in real estate?” There’s something wary in her tone, like she’s starting to connect dots she doesn’t like.
“Among other things.” I gesture toward the windows overlooking the valley. “Would you like to see the grounds?”
She nods, and I lead her outside onto the terrace. The view from here encompasses most of Sunnybrook: rolling hills dotted withoak trees, neat rows of vineyards and lavender fields, the distant cluster of buildings that make up the town center.
“What a beautiful view,” she says, and I can hear the genuine love in her voice.
“That’s why I bought the place.” I move to stand beside her at the railing, close enough that I can smell the lingering scent of honey and bee smoke in her hair. “I came here to retire. To find somewhere quiet and peaceful, away from the city.”
“Retire?” She glances up at me with raised eyebrows. “You can’t be old enough to retire.”
“I’m thirty-five. And I made enough money in my previous career to last several lifetimes.” The words taste bitter. Blood money, earned through intimidation and barely legal coercion. “But retirement turned out to be more complicated than I expected.”
“How so?”
I point toward the eastern hills, where survey stakes have appeared in the last month. “One of the companies I used to work for is eyeing this area for development. Strip malls, business parks, resort complexes. The kind of projects that would destroy everything that drew me here.”
Her face goes pale. “They can’t do that. This is agricultural land.”
“Agricultural land that’s becoming increasingly difficult for families to keep and maintain.” I let that sink in for a moment. “Families like yours.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by anger. “So you’re buying up properties to sell to developers? You’re helping them?”
“The opposite.” I turn to face her fully, letting her see the sincerity in my eyes. “I’m buying properties to keep them as farmland. To preserve what makes this place special.”
“Then why does everyone in town think you’re the enemy?”
The question stings, but she’s right. “Because I’m not very good at explaining myself. And because…” I gesture to my imposing frame, my horns, the sheer physical presence that makes people instinctively step back. “Let’s be honest. I’m not exactly the face you’d choose for a farmland preservation campaign.”
I watch her process this information, and I can almost see her reassessing everything she thought she knew about me, about my intentions.
“You could have led with that,” she says finally, before looking back out at the landscape.
“Yes. I’m learning that my approach to most things needs work.”
