Page 6 of Bound to the Minotaur
Instead, I stared out the window as the town drew closer. The road dipped into a sleepy main street, dusted with frost. On our left, a ramshackle building with a sign that read “Ted’s Plumbing& Repairs” leaned slightly to one side. Next to it was a tidy general store with a chalkboard out front advertising eggs and canned peaches. The diner sat across the street, its neon “Open” sign flickering like it needed convincing.
The town hall loomed past them, with a few other buildings trailing off—some shuttered, some with faded signs and dusty windows. One in particular caught my eye: a little B&B painted pale blue with lace curtains and flower boxes still bravely holding on to a few dried mums. A neatly carved wooden sign swung from its porch: Halvers’ Haven.
I blinked, then turned slowly to Gregory. “You said there weren’t any,” I murmured. He grunted, of course, that was all the response he deigned to give me. I quirked an eyebrow, daring him to meet my gaze. He didn’t, but his cheeks pinked slightly beneath the curl of his black hair, and he huffed. A literal huff, like steam from a bull’s nose in winter.
The truck squealed as he parked beside the diner, gravel spitting under the tires. Before I could open the door, he had leaped out and slammed his shut. I was still struggling to open mine so I could plunge down to the ground when he popped up at my side. Like last night, he yanked the door from my grip and held it open. Unlike last night, he stayed standing right there in front of me, almost blocking the way out.
I took a deep breath, and my lungs filled with his scent, leather, motor oil, something all male. Warmth filled the space between us, heating my legs through my jeans as I swung them around toward him so I could get out. He stepped back—barely—and my shoes thumped onto the pavement with a jar that vibrated upmy legs. Then he caught me by surprise again, when he reached down with his hand and caught my wrist.
It was warm and strong—calloused fingers curling around me as if to tether me to the moment, to him. He didn’t tighten that grip, letting me feel his strength without making me feel shackled. Then he turned and began pulling me across the road without a word.
Avis was ahead of him somehow, though I’d missed when he’d jumped from the truck. Tail high, he blazed the way with prancing steps and a perfect flounce. Gregory was less graceful as he stomped away, pulling me with him. I scrambled after them, heart thudding a little too fast, questions on the tip of my tongue.
Gregory didn’t look back. He just hauled open the diner door, like it had offended him, and held it long enough for me to pass through. So I did. And, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel quite so alone.
The door creaked shut behind us with a mechanical wheeze and a faint jingle that sounded like it hadn’t been tuned since the eighties. I paused just inside, letting the warmth of the diner chase the cold from my fingers and took in the space with a slow sweep of my eyes.
It was like stepping into a snow globe from another era. The red vinyl booths were cracked along the seams, duct-taped in places, and the checkerboard tile floor had more scuff than shine. The walls were a soft yellow that had probably started life as cream, dotted with framed photos of townsfolk and faded articles clipped from the local paper. The overhead lights buzzed faintly,and one in the back corner flickered every third beat, like a dying firefly. It should’ve felt rundown.
Instead, it felt…lived-in. Cozy, even—like this place was a corner of the world where people came when they needed familiarity more than perfection.
No waitstaff buzzed about—just a towering figure behind the counter, wearing an apron smeared with what I hoped was batter. He was even larger than Gregory, which I hadn’t known was possible. Blond hair, pale beard, skin like driftwood, and eyes that pinned me in place from across the room. Scandinavian, unmistakably. He had the presence of a man who’d once held an axe professionally.
Gregory didn’t say a word to him, just walked toward the nearest booth and slid into it, like gravity pulled him there. I hesitated for half a second, then followed.
He let go of my wrist as soon as I sat. I hadn’t realized he was still holding it until the warmth vanished. Under the table, I rubbed the spot absently. My skin still tingled where his fingers had been. I could feel the shape of them like a phantom bracelet.
He looked anywhere but at me. His shoulders were tight with tension, one arm spread along the back of the booth like he intended to claim the place. His coveralls clung tightly to his broad chest, the open V at his neck offering a glimpse of his upper pecs. The pocket—the one that said “The Pit Stop”—strained over his left pectoral.
“So,” I said after a beat, my voice low. “What exactly are we doing here?” A nervous energy filled me, one that was half fear ofthe future and half butterflies from being across from Gregory in a setting like this. Almost, this felt like a date, but there was no way my strange, surly companion would ever want that.
“Breakfast,” he said shortly, proving that my company was not as pleasant to him as his seemed to be to me. I was an idiot for enjoying his presence, the way he made me feel safe.
I blinked. “Oh.” Of course we were here for breakfast—why else? I gazed around the cozy, shabby interior of the diner and wondered how busy it got in here. Probably not at all, considering the low traffic on the road and the almost abandoned feel of the town. There was still no sign of a waiter or waitress.
Gregory turned toward the counter and raised two fingers in a way that clearly meant more than it seemed to. The Norse-god of a cook gave a small nod, then disappeared through the swinging door like some kind of culinary specter.
When Gregory turned back, he looked at me briefly—just long enough to judge something, maybe the shadows under my eyes or the fact that I hadn’t tried to make small talk. Then he said, “Double stack of pancakes. Syrup. No bacon.” I wasn’t sure if he was ordering food or simply telling me what we were going to get.
“No bacon?” I blinked. “Seriously?” Who didn’t eat bacon with their pancakes? Especially a guy as big as him? Pancakes did sound good. My stomach eagerly rumbled at the thought, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten a bite since my last sandwich, late yesterday afternoon. There hadn’t been any place to stop and get dinner once I’d gotten off the highway.
He leaned back in the booth, broad shoulders barely fitting against the cracked vinyl. “I’m a vegetarian.” He gave me a look that dared me to make fun of that—sharp, cutting, and confident, as if he didn’t really care what I thought of it anyway.
The statement pulled a laugh from me before I could help it. “You? You’re the size of a barn. I figured you ate your enemies.”ThatI could picture, him munching on some femur while glaring at a cowering, shadowy figure. If anyone had the killing glare down pat, it was him.
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.” But there was a tilt to the corner of his mouth, as if he was amused, pleased. I couldn’t quite see it, but I felt it in my gut, that he liked that I’d spoken up, that I hadn’t just nodded and accepted it. That I’dteasedhim. I hadn’t pegged him for a guy who liked banter; he didn’t appear to like conversation, period.
“Just saying. You’re full of surprises,” I told him, and that faint tilt at the corner of his mouth seemed to stretch a little further—devastatingly sexy, hinting at dry wit and humor.
From behind the counter, I heard the faintest snort. Gregory’s head snapped toward the kitchen door like a gunshot. “Stay in your freaking kitchen, Sven,” he barked. “And don’t start.” He made the name “Sven” sound like an insult, a mockery. The reply was silence, but I swore I could feel the amusement radiating from behind the door.
I bit back a grin. “You’re popular here.” He didn’t respond, just folded his arms across his chest and glared at the salt shaker. A few minutes later, Sven emerged carrying two plates. He dropped a large salad—yes, salad, for breakfast—in front ofGregory with a muttered word in a language I didn’t recognize, but that was definitely said with judgment.
Then came the pancakes. Two towering stacks, steaming and golden, drowning in syrup. Apparently, when Gregory had announced that to me, the cook had heard. My stomach growled audibly once again, and two pairs of eyes plus a cat turned my way to stare. I noticed that the pocket on the towering cook’s pristine shirt didn’t say Sven, it said Mikael. So Sven wasn’t even his name; that was some kind of joke between these two men.
Gregory took his fork, stabbed into one stack with surgical precision, and slid it toward me. “Eat,” he ordered firmly. My stomach gurgled a third time, eagerly agreeing with the demand. The chef, Mikael, smiled once before turning and walking away on silent feet.
I stared at him. “You…don’t want them?” I asked. I didn’t know why, but I hadn’t considered even once that he’d been ordering food for both of us—or that breakfast had included me. I figured I’d ask for a menu when I got the chance and order the cheapest thing on it to tide me over. Usually, the guys I’d hung out with assumed the salad was mine too, if we ate. And I’d never managed to fit the rail-thin image my father had wanted of me, no matter how many salads I ate or how many pancakes I forwent.
