Chapter Two

Stephanie

I press the button, and although I’m right on time, it takes him over a minute to answer. After confirming my name, he buzzes me in.

The house was hidden from the street by pines and shrubs, but it comes into view as I drive over crunching gravel. It’s a lovely, quaint, albeit huge, cottage. Like something out of a fairytale.

Okay. I can do this. Minotaurs are out of fairytales too. I’m sure he’ll be a nice, friendly guy. Nothing like the clipped email messages we’ve been sharing as we nailed down the time for the interview.

At the end of each message, he reminded me he’s a minotaur and offered to cancel the interview if working with him would be a problem. It was a good technique, even though he probably didn’t intend for it to be a strategy. Every time I reassured him that I’d looked at his pictures and felt I’d be comfortable working with him, I also reassured myself.

“Okay, Steph,” I mumble as I ease out of my little blue Corolla. “You’re going to look at him, and after a minute of getting used to his… Other-ness, it will just be a regular interview.”

The front door is slightly ajar. When I reach it, I hear a bellowed, “It’s open. Come in. I’ll be right there.”

My heart is no longer pounding in my chest. It’s hammering. I’d been so worried about his minotaur-ness that I hadn’t given enough thought to the fact that I’m out in the middle of nowhere and he could be a serial killer. Did I mention this interview to my parents? If I disappear, will the police be able to track me to this location from my emails?

The exterior of the old-fashioned cabin is straight out of a Thomas Kincaid painting, all pastels and large mullioned windows. Inside, though, is more like a parody of a 1980s bachelor pad.

Everything is black leather, chrome, and glass. The difference between the exterior and interior is a juxtaposition of incongruity.

Mr. Foster said to come in, but he didn’t say how far in, so I’m standing awkwardly in the marble-tiled foyer that looks straight through to the back of the house which boasts floor-to-ceiling windows in his living room. His nearly endless backyard is like something out of a picture book with tall pines, leafy shrubs, and flowers in bloom along pea gravel paths.

“Just a minute. Overslept,” he calls.

A hot rush of air escapes through my nostrils as I purse my lips. I haven’t met the man yet, and I’m already irritated. I got up, got dressed, actually put on makeup for the first time in like a year, and followed my GPS into the wilderness. Yet he barely managed to roll out of bed.

Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I finger the strap on my all-purpose laptop bag. Should I just leave?

I’ve been cooling my heels for at least five minutes when I hear his footsteps. No. Strike that. Not footsteps.

Hooves.

I gird myself, mentally preparing to see not a man, but a male. A minotaur male. He emerges down the steps half in and half out of a lime green t-shirt he’s struggling to pull on over his horns.

Horns.

My mind is processing as fast as a supercomputer. I’m busy taking his inventory in the scant seconds it requires for him to yank on his t-shirt.

Peripherally, I take in the jeans that hug his muscular legs like a second skin. Although jarring, I barely clock the black-polished hooves peeking below the hems.

Those details seem minor compared to the swath of caramel-colored hair exposed between his waistband and the shirt that’s slowly lowering to meet it. Is there a six-pack, or perhaps an eight-pack, lurking under all that fur? It’s only when he’s fully covered that I force my gaze higher to find him staring at me.

Although I’ve never met a minotaur before, I can read his irritated expression easily enough. He’s irritated? I’m not the one who arrived late and half naked for my interview!

It only takes me a split second to remind myself that I need this job more than I need to stand on principle.

“I’m Stephanie Taylor.” Taking a step toward him, I extend my hand for a shake, although I hate the custom and think it should have been declared illegal if not before, then certainly after COVID.

“I’m Alfie. Pleased to meet you.” His voice is clipped as he gives me a curt nod. “Let’s meet in the dining room.” He indicates the glass table in the open-plan room. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Just give me a minute. It was a… long night.” He pushes open the swinging door to what must be the kitchen. “I’ve got those coffee pods,” he calls. “It won’t take a minute.”

For a second, my irritation rises at how rude this is. Then I once again remind myself how much I need this job. I might as well use this time to process his big reveal.

I don’t know what category to put his body in. Does he go into the foreign and scary category, the hairy dad bad category, or perhaps under all that hair he qualifies for the yummy-and-better-than-a-bodybuilder category?

Although I looked at his picture dozens of times online, it’s different seeing him in person. He has a man’s body, albeit shaggy, with a bull’s head. He’s covered from the tips of his hooves to the top of his head in caramel-colored fur, although the tip of his muzzle is gray. His amber eyes seem wary, hooded, giving nothing away. One of his bovine ears boasts an additional earring to the one he had when all those online pictures were taken. And those horns. No wonder his tee has a deep V at the neck. He wouldn’t be able to tug a regular neckline over them.

I can work with this. I can get used to this. I need this job.

“You sure you don’t want coffee?” His voice is congenial as he calls through the closed door.

“No, thank you.” Did my clipped tone make my meaning clear? Let’s cut the shit and get to the interview. I’m on pins and needles out here.

As he pushes the swinging door open and walks the few feet to the table, I can’t help but notice how big he is. His shoulders are so wide, and he’s tall—not even counting his horns. The clip-clop of his hooves on the flooring is so odd, so out of place.

I can work with this. I can get used to this. I need this job.

Soon, he’s seated at the head of the table with me at his side as he explains the job duties in more detail than the written job description he’d sent me. Just as I’d hoped, his Other-ness fades into the background as we discuss my role, which sounds even more interesting in person.

“Had you heard of Labyrinth before you applied?” His voice is more strident than his previous questions, as though my response to this is especially important.

For a split second, since this seems so important to him, I consider lying to stroke his ego. Honesty wins out, though. “No. I’m kind of a retro girl. Uh…”

I listened to a few of his songs to prepare for our meeting. His music is haunting and surprisingly lovely. His older music was done completely with synthesized electronic music, or so his website said. It was only since he gained notoriety a few months ago and managed to obtain a few genuine Other instruments that he learned to play authentically. I must admit, his recent songs are my favorites.

Knowing what his music sounds like, he’s not going to be impressed when I admit what type of music I listen to at home.

“Retro?” he prods.

“Yeah? Disco? It’s just… happy, mindless music.”

He snorts, a primitive, completely inhuman sound. For a moment, I assume he’s being dismissive, but he’s quick to add, “I don’t hear that often.”

“What?”

“That disco is anyone’s favorite music.”

Perhaps I’m not reading him correctly, but he seems somehow pleased with my answer.

We continue discussing my duties, and I take every opportunity to toot my own horn, taking advantage of every pause to enumerate all the ways my existing skill set, though I wasn’t in the music business, can meet his needs.

He’s hard to read, but I think he might consider hiring me.

While I’m trying to forgive his late arrival and his partially dressed state when he descended the stairs for our interview, a feminine voice calls from another room.

“Alfie? Where’d you go?”

He’s married? I didn’t read anything about that in my deep dive into his background. Well, that’s nice. They say there’s a soulmate waiting for everyone. I guess that’s true even for Others.

“I’m in the—”

He’s interrupted by his wife walking into the large open-plan area, stark naked. Evidently, she doesn’t see me, because she just keeps walking, nonchalant, yawning, large breasts jiggling. Those are huge. They have to be implants, right?

“Where’s the kitchen? I smell coffee—”

She sees me, pauses for a moment, then flashes me a smile and says, “Hey,” as her gaze arrows to Alfie.

“Coffee? Through there?” She points to the swinging door.

I’ll have a longer, more in-depth debate with myself later, but at first blush, I think this is the most awkward moment of my life. Is it the minotaur? The naked woman? The naked woman who doesn’t know where his freaking kitchen is? Or that she didn’t seem to give a shit that she was sashaying naked as a jaybird through what, even to the untrained eye, is clearly a business meeting.

“Hazelnut,” I hear her coo to no one in particular after the kitchen door has closed behind her. “Great.”

“Uh, pardon me.” Alfie gives me what I think might be a sheepish look, rises from his chair, and eases through the swinging door.

As I eye the front door and grab my briefcase, I can’t help but eavesdrop. I mean, is it really eavesdropping if they’re not even trying to whisper?

“Amanda, I’m—”

“Ashley. I’m Ashley. I thought you said you’d wake me with your tongue—”

“Ashley, I forgot I had a business meeting this morning. If you could just go back to bed, I’ll join you shortly.”

We have a saying in the South: “It flew all over me.” It describes the moment when an emotion is so big, so hot, so fast, so compelling that it flies through you, not only lighting your emotions on fire, but your nerves and synapses as well. I’ve felt it before, but never this strongly.

My cheeks are blazing, partly from embarrassment, partly from anger. No. Make that fury. And indignation. I feel completely unimportant. Dismissed.

There are so many emotions swirling through me that I’m not sure how I make my way to the front door. Despite my urge to slam the damn thing, I close it quietly behind me. Although I doubt he gives two shits about me walking out of this interview, the last thing I need is for him to come after me.

Luckily, my aging Corolla cranks on the first try. I make the fastest three-point turn of my life and barrel down the driveway, barely slowing long enough for the robotic arm to lift high enough to clear the roof of my car.

“Asshole!” I shout to my car interior. “Damn. I needed that job.”