Page 25 of Misbehaving With Minotaurs
That’s why I’m in the stadium gym now, pumping iron and tossing weights around to work off the excess energy. The stadium’s all dark stone with flashy new equipment. The weights have no dings in them. It’s clear nobody’s used them at all. All that’ll have to change.
I consider that as I go through my leg day routine, but Cath is never far from my mind.
A two-hour workout doesn’t even take the edge off, though, because my dick is hard and dripping still by the end of it. It’s been a dozen years or more since I’ve taken a lover and longer since my last relationship. I’ve been so focused on the Hellions and tired of dealing with the push and pull that doomed relationships mean. I’d set that aside for a while, content to focus on work.
But Catherine reminds me of what I haven’t had in a long time—a true partner who fits me in all the important ways.
I take a cold shower and dress in the locker room. I’m starving, though, so I decide to head back to the Annabelle for Catherine’s famous buffet. By the time I get there, I’m nearly desperate with need, thinking about bending her over the dining room table and eating something that ain’t food.
When I walk up the Annabelle’s front stairs, I notice an old can of paint in the corner. Sweet girl waggles her shutters at me until I cross the porch and take a peek. The white paint is peeling off the shutters in sad little strips, exposing the wood beneath. I stroke my way along one of the slats, and tiny shreds of paint fall off it.
“You need some help, sweet girl?” I glance around at the front of the inn.
She ripples her pale pink siding in a sad little pattern, then dangles the shutter from one hinge, letting it swing as if the whole inn is about to fall down.
I laugh at her dramatics. “Point taken, Annabelle. If you want me to help, I’m happy to. But we gotta sand these shutters before we paint. If I paint over this, it’ll just peel right back off.”
She lets out an ominous groan from deep inside, but I pat the siding. “Promise I’ll fix it, okay?”
She doesn’t respond, but I make a mental note to grab sandpaper later today. Cath has her hands full with this place. Makessense she doesn’t have time for upkeep. I’ll handle that so she doesn’t have to.
All reasonable thoughts fly outta my head when I find Catherine flitting around the kitchen in a fitted pink tee, tight-ass jeans and a ruffly apron with hearts all over it.
Godsdamn.
Just like that, I’m aching again.
This woman might be the death of me.
A bowl of juicy-looking red apples sits on the kitchen island. I don’t recall that being there before, and it makes me smile. She knows I love red apples, even though minotaurs are primarily meat eaters.
When I enter the kitchen and grab one, she halts and turns, smiling up at me.
Gray eyes sparkle with mirth as she plants a hand on her round hip. “Sleep well, Manorin? I’m not sure if everything’s quite your size in that room, but let me know if you’re at alluncomfortable.”
I resist the urge to discuss mycomfortat length right here in the dining room, but the male pixie flits in and starts picking over a stack of scones, so I hold back.
Instead, I level Catherine with a heavy stare. “I need you this morning. I neglected to mention it last night, given our other topic of discussion, but I’m meeting Arkan at the Galloping Green Bean to discuss recruitment and what that might look like. I’d like to have you there to give your opinion, if you’re free?”
A pretty pink blush spreads over her cheeks, and she smiles, a tiny dimple appearing. “I’d love that. Let me just wrap up the breakfast buffet and set out a sign letting the guests know how to contact me. I can be ready in about five minutes, if that works?”
“No rush.” I wave toward the front door. “I’ll be waiting outside.”
She smiles bigger and turns, heading for the dining room. I watch her go—who wouldn’t?—but then realize, just in front of me, Gilbert the Fucking Pixie is watching her go as well.
I don’t mean to glare; I really don’t. I don’t even realize I am until he looks over at me, pales, and drops his scone. When he rushes toward the stairs and up them, it occurs to me that I’m acting like a younger bull, and that just won’t do. What if Gilbert’s here for the same reason I am, considering a move to Ever and reevaluating his priorities?
I can’t sow that sort of ill will, so I grimace on my way to the door, considering if I should find Gilbert and apologize, maybe offer to bring him another stack of towels or a piece of Catherine’s pie.
Fuck that. I don’t want anybody tasting that pie but me.
Once outside, I lean against Annabelle’s pale pink siding and munch on my apple, watching the world go by as I wait for Catherine to appear.
As I’m staring at the lovely Community Garden across from the inn, my communication watch pings. When I look down, I’m surprised to see Bishop Rygold’s name flashing above the blue band. It’s bad news if Pine Gulch’s sheriff is callin’ me.
“Rygold, what’s u?—”
“When you coming home next?” Bishop’s deep voice cracks a little when he speaks, the result of a wartime injury that permanently damaged his vocal cords.
