Page 23 of Screwed by the Minotaur in Hallow’s Cove (Hallow’s Cove #6)

Chapter seventeen

Lea

Friday came fast. I barely slept the night before, waking up every hour to mentally list all the things I still had to finish.

The morning started with a downpour, so loud against the shop roof that it felt like a warning shot.

I brewed coffee strong enough to make my hands shake, then spent the whole day pacing up and down the shop, triple-checking each shelf, plant, and price tag.

Rick, meanwhile, was a blur of motion—hanging signs, polishing windows, even running out to pick up a flat of last-minute annuals when I realized I’d forgotten to order any poppies.

He never stopped moving except to squeeze my shoulder or quickly kiss my cheek.

“Hey!” he barked, startling me out of my inventory trance. “It’s time. Get going.”

“Going where?” I asked, half-distracted by the miniature cacti I was alphabetizing.

He grinned, wide and wolfish. “Home. Shower. Hair. Change. You’re not hosting your grand opening looking like an extra from a seed catalog.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off with a gentle but unyielding hand on my lower back, steering me toward the door.

“I mean it, Lea. Go get ready. I’ll finish up here and meet you back at the apartment.”

I let myself be herded, a little dazed by his energy.

My feet squelched in my battered sneakers as I tromped upstairs, shedding layers of grimy clothes with every step.

The apartment was its usual disaster, but the bathroom was a little island of calm: clean towels, a new candle (cinnamon vanilla), and two toothbrushes in the cup instead of one.

My chest went weirdly tight at the sight.

Before I could overthink it, I jumped in the shower and scoured away three days of sweat, paint, and dirt.

I even shaved my legs—first time all week.

I took extra time co-washing my hair, silently thanking Rick for giving me enough time to care for my curls.

Then I tore through drawers and found one of the summer dresses I’d packed for “special occasions,” which I hadn’t worn since that first night at Killy’s.

I removed my hair from one of Rick’s soft shirts I wrapped it up in, working through product and styling my curls.

I caught my reflection in the ancient, paint-speckled mirror.

I looked… not put together, not beautiful, but alive.

Electric, almost. Like something was burning inside me and leaking out my eyes and cheeks.

I was still barefoot and brushing my teeth when Rick banged through the door, arms full of flower bundles and a bag from Cool Beans I suspected was filled with pastries and not, as advertised, “emergency supplies.” He stopped short when he saw me, something raw and unguarded moving across his face.

“You clean up nice,” he said, voice low and almost reverent.

“You see me every morning like a swamp creature,” I shot back, feeling self-conscious but also—strangely—wanting him to see all of it, every version of me.

He shrugged, setting the armful of flowers down on my counter and coming closer. He ran his thumb around my jaw, not bothering to hide the way he lingered on the spot near my ear where my hair still dripped onto my neck.

“I like the swamp creature. But this?” He let out a slow whistle that made me squirm. “This is unfair. You’re gonna kill ’em out there.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled, turning away so I didn’t start giggling like a teenager. “Are you here to make me nervous, or are you here for something else?”

“Both?” He plopped onto the edge of the bed, grinning. “Mostly, I came to steal five minutes of your time before you go and charm the socks off the whole town.”

I turned to face him, hands fidgeting with the cord of my dress. “Five minutes?”

He crooked his finger, summoning me. When I stood in front of him, he slid his hands up my thighs, fingers splayed possessively. “Nervous?”

“I’m terrified,” I admitted, swallowing.

His grin faded, replaced with that deep steadiness I’d come to crave. “You’ve done things that are so much harder than this, Lea. You already built it. All this is just letting them in.”

I tried to hold onto that, the warmth of his words. “Still want them to like me, though. Is that pathetic?”

“I’d be more worried if you didn’t.” He drew me closer until my knees touched his. “As long as you remember that I already do.” He leaned in, kissing just below my jaw, then lower, over the flutter of my heart.

God. He was completely unfair. “You’re going to make me smudge my mascara,” I warned, even as I wound my fingers through his hair and let myself collapse into the kiss.

He tasted like everything I’d ever wanted, ever been brave enough to wish for.

I wanted to stay tangled with him forever, but after a minute I broke away, breathless.

“Is there a time limit on those five minutes?” I asked.

He grinned, teeth flashing. “There’s always time for you.”

One more kiss, quick and hungry, and he nudged me toward the door. “Go,” he said softly, “before I wreck all your hard work getting pretty.”

I gathered my bag, found a clean pair of sandals, and we walked down together, out into the scented dusk. Rick squeezed my hand, steady and grounding.

The windows of Coming Up Daisies were all aglow.

I could see Maisie through the front glass, already there with a camera, fussing with the decorations.

Inside, the shop was transformed: every shelf and table teeming with color and light, the air sweet with blossom and sugar and the musk of freshly cut stems. There were more people here than I’d seen in one place since moving to Hallow’s Cove.

Some from Rick’s circle, some from the coffee shop, a few faces from Killy’s, and—my heart stuttered—Barnaby, rising like a specter among the arrangements, elegant in a tailored deep blue suit.

He caught my eye the moment I entered, inclined his head once, and offered the smallest, most gracious of smiles, as if I’d passed some secret test.

I was ushered to the register by Roan, who’d made a brilliant new logo and insisted I pose for a Polaroid before she’d let anyone else buy so much as a single marigold.

Behind the counter, they’d strung up a banner; it had “Opening Day!” in wild, painted letters, where every word bloomed with hand- drawn vines and tiny, grinning sunflowers.

The whole place looked alive, humming with possibility.

It was exactly what I’d dreamed but never dared to ask for.

Within minutes, the bell above the door was ringing, letting in a steady current of customers—neighbors, regulars from the coffee shop, even a group of awkward high schoolers who immediately started cracking jokes about “carnivorous plants” and pretending to feed each other’s sweaters to the Venus flytraps.

It should have been overwhelming, but I found myself beaming, laughing, fluttering from the register to the displays and back again, answering questions about soil and light, snipping ribbons, making up impromptu bouquets on the fly.

Every interaction left me a little more dizzy, a little more convinced that maybe, just maybe, I could make it work here.

When the rush hit its peak, Rick hovered near the back wall, more bouncer than boyfriend, arms folded and keeping a watchful eye over the proceedings.

His smile was proud, indulgent, and a little awed—like he couldn’t quite believe I belonged to him.

I caught him staring a few times and stuck my tongue out in retaliation.

The tips of his ears went pink, which was all the reward I needed.

The evening blurred in a riot of color and conversation.

I lost track of how many times people congratulated me, how many hands I shook, how many times I had to dodge an overly eager hug from a customer.

I felt like a country fair prize pig—admired, petted, slightly overwhelmed—but instead of making me retreat, it made me want to work even harder, to give them all something extraordinary to come back for.

I caught little flashes of my new community in the crowd: Maisie, snapping pictures; Mitch, the wolfman from Cool Beans, laughing with his partner Clay and a burly rock troll over a potted rosemary; Roan, as promised, affixing her gorgeous signage to every flat surface while also somehow managing to hand out cookies on a tray shaped like a watering can.

I even spotted Gwen from Killy’s, crisply dressed and holding a bouquet like it was both a shield and a badge of honor.

Every time I tried to thank one of them for coming, the words came out all tumbled and breathless, a little too much like the beginnings of a happy cry.

I was so distracted by the whirling, joyous chaos that I didn’t notice Rick slipping out the back, but a few minutes later he returned, two champagne bottles dangling from his monstrous fingers.

He made a show of popping both at once, the corks ricocheting off the ceiling while the crowd whooped and applauded like we’d hosted fireworks instead of a flower sale.

He poured me the first glass, leaning over the register to hand it to me with a soft, conspiratorial wink. “To the Queen of Daisies,” he toasted, voice low enough that only I could hear. “And to her new kingdom.”

I laughed, my cheeks feeling hot. “You are so dumb,” I said, but when I looked at him, the moment shimmered with gratitude.

Not for the toast or even the party, but for the world he’d built around me, scaffolding out of faith and bone.

“But thank you,” I whispered, lifting my glass to clink his. “For all of it.”

He tipped his head, letting that golden grin blaze for me alone, and in that second I knew I was completely, irrevocably his.