Page 7 of Screwed by the Minotaur in Hallow’s Cove (Hallow’s Cove #6)

Chapter five

Rick

The sun was high in the sky when I finally awoke, and my first thought was Shit—the shop!

But then I quickly remembered I didn’t open until noon on Mondays and nuzzled further into Lea’s curls, grasping her around the waist where we still lay together in bed.

I let myself sink into that moment, the heat of her soft body entwined with mine, her presence so vibrant even in sleep.

I was tired, exhausted even, yet I felt more alive than I had in a long time.

This woman had a way of disarming me without even trying, digging past my defenses, and that terrified me.

I spent so much time thinking about Lea and how perfectly she fit against me, how I could get used to this—more than used to it.

A life like this, with someone like her.

My stomach clenched at the thought of her leaving.

The visit to the inn was supposed to be a one-time thing, a brief encounter that I wouldn’t think about again.

I was fooling myself if I thought I wasn’t getting attached, her soft breaths puffing against my neck making that clear to me.

I slowly extricated myself, careful not to wake her.

She had me reeling, and I couldn’t let that happen.

It would mean nothing but heartache if I got attached and then she left.

I headed to the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water, letting the droplets run down my furred face as I stared into the mirror, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

I looked away from my reflection and down at my junk.

“That’ll have to be taken care of,” I muttered to myself as I grabbed a nearby washcloth.

After cleaning up, I stood in the doorway for a moment, a strange flutter running through me as I took one last look at her in bed, still blissed-out from the night before.

I grabbed my pants from the floor and my shirt from where it hung on the back of the desk chair before I finally tore myself away, exiting quietly out of her room. I shut the door and headed back to my place to get ready for a Monday filled with shoppers who had no idea what they were doing.

It was early enough that I didn’t pass anyone on the way to the shop, and I was able to shower.

I was distracted by thoughts of Lea and it was barely more than three minutes to noon when I finally emerged from the shower, hastily putting on a T-shirt and jeans.

I quickly rolled up the shutters, hoping it was early enough that no one from the inn would see me and recognize me as the guy who had left earlier that morning.

The afternoon passed in a blur of busywork and self-recrimination.

I tried to focus on the shop, on the parade of customers who needed screen repair kits or rawhide mallets or window boxes they’d never actually install.

I told myself it was for the best—better to keep things compartmentalized, to remember what happened last night and this morning for what they were: a bright, ferocious bloom that would wilt by Monday.

She said she was just visiting. She’d made it clear. And I wasn’t about to get caught up in fairytales, no matter how good she looked straddling my hips or curled up against my chest.

Lea

The first thing I noticed when I woke was the ache—low and slow in my thighs, the memory of being expertly, extravagantly fucked. The second was the emptiness: the bed cold on his side, the sheets rumpled and smelling of minotaur and sex but not warmth. Not him.

He was gone. He’d left without saying anything. Not even a goodbye kiss.

I rolled over, pushed my face into the pillow, hoping to catch a phantom trace, but all I got was the chemical tang of hotel laundry beneath the smell of my own sweat.

I hated the sick swoop in my stomach, the little-girl longing for someone I’d known for less than twenty-four hours.

I told myself it didn’t matter. We had both said up front that this was a one-night thing.

No promises, no strings. I could respect that.

I’d even admired it, last night. Now, in the daylight, it felt like a door closing.

Even if it was my own damn hand on the knob.

Still, it stung. I hadn’t lied when I called myself a romantic—I’d just learned to keep those tendencies folded away, pressed and hidden under the weight of disappointment and practicality. But this? This was different. With Rick, for the first time in years, I’d felt something flicker to life.

Instead, I was alone. No note. Not even the hollow comfort of a “this was fun” scrawled on hotel stationery.

Just emptiness and the undeniable sense that I’d been a fool to hope for more.

I’d had a few one-night stands, but at least we exchanged numbers even if neither of us never called back.

And if I was honest, none of them were like this.

I hauled myself upright, every muscle stretching and singing the memory of him.

I stared out the window at the blank-sky morning, the sound of birds chirping and distant truck engines just sharp enough to remind me that this wasn’t a dream.

My hips ached pleasantly from the way he’d gripped me, the impact of our bodies echoing in every inch of skin.

I was angry at myself for hoping. I was the one who had said this was only for the weekend—but there's no way that was normal for a one-night stand.

Now I'm pissed at both of us for making it so much more than that.

Maybe it was the intensity of the whole thing—the fucking, the talking, the falling asleep tangled together, so close I could almost believe it was more than transactional pleasure. As I sat there, the anger bloomed and spread throughout me.

Had I been that bad? Was he just putting on a show, faking it the whole time? I’d thought we’d had chemistry, actual, honest-to-god chemistry, but now I wondered if I was just another notch in the bedpost—maybe not even a memorable one at that.

And that made me furious. I’d let him in all the way, shared things I’d never told anyone else—and all I got was a cold pillow and gnawing humiliation.

I balled up the sheets and threw them to the foot of the bed.

Then I stared at the ceiling, the endless off-white expanse, and told myself to get it together.

This was supposed to be a fresh start. If Rick wanted to ghost me, it was his damn loss.

I was still me: stubborn, creative, maybe a little too sentimental. I could do this.

It got easier once I was upright and in motion.

I tied my curls up into a poof using my satin headscarf, then showered, scrubbing my skin with unnecessary roughness, then dressed in my favorite overalls and a soft yellow T-shirt that made my complexion pop.

I built the morning like a shield—protein bar, two cups of coffee, a full face of makeup even though I was only meeting Randy.

But still, beneath the armor, I was sore. I was sad.

And I was definitely still thinking of him.

By the time I hit Main Street, the sun was high enough to bounce off every window and blind me with promise. I pulled my bag tight across my body, told myself to walk like I was going somewhere worth being, and let the blooms lining the sidewalk remind me that things could always start over.

I rounded the corner to my new shop, the keys cold in my palm, and immediately froze in the middle of the sidewalk.

The world had decided to take a direct, unfiltered piss on me.

There, in the morning glare, the hardware store next door to my flower shop stood like a lighthouse of regret, its massive sign blaring HARDWARE.

But it didn’t just say HARDWARE, as I’d noted the day before. It said Rick’s HARDWARE, with the “Rick” in tiny cursive.

How had I missed that?

My face was hot, pulse pounding in my ears.

My brain did a slow, reluctant pirouette.

It was almost too on the nose—a cosmic prank so obvious I wanted to check the sky for hidden cameras.

I felt the world tilt and I had to clutch my bag tighter, as if the weight of my embarrassment would otherwise tip me over.

My mind jumped through every moment of last night, all the things I’d whispered in bed with a man whose shop—whose fucking name—was now staring me down at eye level.

Maybe it was a coincidence. But somehow, I knew it wasn’t. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, roiling, a slow chemical reaction that started as embarrassment and bubbled rapidly into something else.

Rage.

I stood there, staring up at the sign like the answer to my whole stupid life was just a matter of reading it correctly.

Rick’s Hardware.

I marched straight to the door, the bell above it tinkling with the bright cheerfulness of someone who had never been abandoned in a hotel bed.

The scent of sawdust and fertilizer hit me, acrid and grounding, but also layered with the faintest trace of the man himself—minotaur musk and whatever clean, citrusy soap he used.

I followed the scent to the back of the store, where Rick stood behind the counter, forearms deep in a cardboard box of brass screws.

He looked up, and for a split second his face did something—a ripple of surprise, or maybe regret.

But then he schooled it, that practiced calm I’d found so stupidly irresistible the night before.

I didn’t give him a chance to say anything. “Hey, neighbor,” I snapped, my smile bright enough to cut glass. “Fancy running into you here. Or, you know, not running into you, since I thought you’d at least be polite enough to say goodbye.”

He blinked, like he’d walked directly into a pane of glass. “Lea. I—”

“Save it,” I said, slamming my palm on the counter.

My vision was so tunneled on his face I barely registered the customer two aisles over, pretending to compare brands of duct tape while their eyes flicked over to us every ten seconds.

“You know, I thought maybe you were busy. Or shy. Or that I’d read the night wrong.

But you didn’t even bother with the classic ‘it’s not you, it’s me. ’”

He squared his shoulders, but his hands gripped the counter like he was trying to hold the earth steady. “I thought you were just visiting,” he said, voice even, but with an edge that wasn’t there last night. “You said it yourself. One night.”

My brain buzzed, a rising static that made it hard to hear anything except my own heartbeat. “So it meant nothing to you? You have nights like that all the time?” I tried to rein it in, but the words kept tumbling out, sharp and brittle. “At least give me enough respect to dump me to my face.”

He was quiet for a minute, jaw working beneath the stubble. “It was a night. It was great. But that’s what it was, Lea. You said—”

“I lied!” It came out so hard it startled even me. The word ricocheted off every angle of the shop, and the customer in aisle two abandoned all pretense and openly gawked. I steadied myself on the edge of the counter. “Yeah, I said that, but after last night, I thought maybe…”

And then it was too much, the tightness in my throat threatening to wring the words out as tears.

Rick stared at me, nostrils flaring in that slightly inhuman way, and for a second I thought he was angry.

Then I saw it—the way his hands trembled, the way his jaw clenched like he was the one being flayed alive.

“Lea, I—fuck. I thought you were leaving! I thought I was doing the right thing. I figured if I ripped the bandage off in the morning, it’d hurt less. ”

The rational move would be to walk away. To tell him thanks for the honesty, and then mind my own business, like everyone in my life had always done. But I’d never been rational, and yesterday had only proved it.

“I have to meet Randy in five minutes,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “We’re starting demo over at the new shop.”

Rick’s brow furrowed. “You’re opening a shop here?”

“Yeah. Next door.” I jerked my thumb toward the street. “Grand opening in six weeks.”

He blinked so slow I thought he’d malfunctioned. “You bought the old boutique?”

I almost laughed. “Guess you’re stuck with me for at least the six months it’ll take to realize I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.”

I turned on my heel and stalked out, the bell over the door jangling after me as I slammed it shut.