Many Thanks

Blurb

Zoey and Theo’s otherworldly chemistry cannot be denied, but evil forces threaten to shatter their fragile bond.

Zoey

When Theo—part minotaur, part enigma—walks into my salon seeking a makeover, my quiet life explodes into a whirlwind of desire and danger. Beneath his awkward exterior lies a potent masculinity that defies the rules. As passion blooms, those who don’t condone a love like ours take their hatred a step too far and threaten our very lives.

Theo

On Earth, where I’m an Other, Zoey awakens my forbidden desires. Her playful spirit unveils a world of acceptance and love I never dared dream of, but dangerous haters threaten to rip us apart. Fueled by the passionate wildfire Zoey has ignited in me, I”ll face any adversary, defy any rule, to protect the free-spirited woman who has captured my soul.

Written by USA TODAY Bestselling author, Alana Khan, this is a standalone romance told in dual point of view, set in the Dad Bod Monster world. This series can be read in any order. Expect a cinnamon-roll hero who falls hard and fast, size difference, forbidden love, friends-to-lovers romance.

Chapter One

Theo

I shouldn’t need a five-minute internal debate just to get a cup of coffee. I force myself to my feet and approach the stairs leading to the first floor as though I’m marching into battle.

My office is the only one in the basement of the Jack Collins Accounting Agency. When the HR director, Phoebe Grant, escorted me to it on my first day at work, she explained that because of my size, they had built this just for me.

“No trouble,” she’d said with a forced smile. “We were happy to do it.” She flung her arm toward a door near the stairwell as she proudly announced, “We even built you a private bathroom that will be more… minotaur-sized. Roomy.”

At some point during my second week in my new position, a small cart appeared with a coffeemaker and a dorm-sized fridge filled with five flavors of creamer. A hand-written Post-it was stuck to the coffeepot’s glass carafe that simply said, “Enjoy!”

I’ve thought of this as my home away from home for the two years I’ve worked here. I must admit, I never feel comfortable around my human colleagues. My supervisor even encouraged me to Zoom to meetings, even though they’re held on the second floor of this very building. After a while, whenever I was in meetings with them, they stopped asking everyone to turn their cameras on, even though the company handbook requires it.

I arrive early and stay a bit late, finding this schedule allows me to avoid most of my co-workers. I’ve been happy to stay in my slightly musty-smelling office in the basement and do my accounting from here.

Realizing I’ve been standing at the foot of the stairwell for several minutes, I square my shoulders and climb the stairs.

During our last interdepartmental Zoom call, Bob Argyle from auditing mentioned how much he appreciated the new coffeemaker on the first floor.

“I’m telling you, boss, those Hellagood Stiff-Brew pods are the best thing since sliced bread.”

I wouldn’t exactly call myself a coffee aficionado, but I love a good, stiff cup of coffee. It’s for this reason I’m ascending the steps as though in search of the Holy Grail.

The Others, as my kind are called, fell to Earths twenty-five years ago. To this day, no one knows exactly how or why we got here. Minotaurs, orcs, nagas, wolven, and more just thumped onto the sands of the Mojave one day.

They were all rounded up and confined to a place called the Integration Zone on the outskirts of Los Angeles. All the Others were confined there—except me and my brother, Alphonse.

Both of us were less than one month old at the time. Although it was clear from the start that we weren’t related, which DNA tests later confirmed, my parents wanted to adopt us both. They fought like hell to get special permission, but considering my father had just been elected to the United States Senate, strings were pulled. Instead of being thrown into the barbed wire fenced Zone, we were adopted into an influential, upper-class family in a small town on the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia.

Alphonse and I, though not related by blood, are as close as real brothers. Probably closer, even though our personalities are as different as night and day. We were home-schooled together and did distance learning for our advanced degrees.

There are times I wish I’d grown up in the Zone, though I wouldn’t admit that to my parents for a million dollars. At least in that dismal ghetto, my kind would be considered normal, not the perpetual odd-man-out. I’m still not exactly comfortable around most humans unless they’re relatives or close friends of the family.

I steel myself, then open the door into what they call the bullpen—I’m sure I should find the name ironic, but I can’t find a shred of humor in it. Ms. Grant fell all over herself that first day, apologizing in advance as if the name offended me. It’s filled with cubicles and admin staff. Then I follow my nose to the coffee station where the new pod-machine is sitting in a position of honor.

I’d forgotten that there is a daily assortment of pastries displayed on the table. Somehow, no one got the memo that the guy in the basement should get a daily delivery of those, too.

There’s a line waiting for the machine, so I pretend I’m invisible—I’m good at that—and wait my turn.

Perhaps these people don’t know that minotaur hearing is far superior to that of humans. What else would explain the snatches of conversation drifting to my ears?

“I thought he wasn’t allowed on this floor. I heard that Arabella Simpson insisted on having that clause in her employment contract.”

“If you ask me, all the Others should be in the Zone.”

“That’s what happens when your adopted father’s a Senator. How else do you think he got a job at this firm?”

“The Purist propaganda that comes through my social media feed says there’s a certain type of human who is attracted to them.” This is a man, his tone scandalized.

“Maybe some of the other species, but certainly not a minotaur.” A woman’s whispered scoff is barely muffled. “At least not that one. He’s so… hairy.”

Hairy? I’m a minotaur! What do they expect?

“And out of shape. I mean, he’s got a dad bod.”

Dad bod? I’ll have to look that up the moment I return to my desk. Which I would be happy to do right this moment, except that would look odd, right? I came up here for a reason, got in line for Hellagood Stiff Brew. Easing to the exit and fleeing downstairs would be even more awkward than standing here listening to this, right?

“And you couldn’t go anywhere together in public… I mean, it would be so embarrassing.”

Speaking of embarrassing, I wish I could disappear through the floor right this minute.

“Well, there’s one good thing. With looks like that, I doubt he’ll be procreating.”

Finally, it’s my turn at the machine. Not that I even want the cup of coffee at this point. It’s just that I’m too humiliated to run away in defeat. As I read the instructions, then wait for the blasted machine to finish its loud whooshing and gurgling, I sneak a glance at the three admins who’ve been picking apart my appearance.

I’ll give them a smidgeon of grace. They’re almost on the other side of the room. Since they probably don’t know about what some people consider my superhuman hearing, I doubt they know I’ve heard every demeaning, degrading, soul-destroying word.

I don’t waste time pouring the caramel-flavored creamer, which I’d wanted to try. They don’t stock the basement with that. I’ll just hustle back downstairs and use the boring French Vanilla from my tiny fridge.

I never knew my big, bulky body could scurry, but that’s exactly how I get from the first floor to the basement. Although my coffee might get cold, the first thing I do is set my cup on my desk, then hurry into my private bathroom.

Why I feel the need to hide in here, I don’t know. In the two years I’ve been here, after Ms. Grant gave me the tour, I’ve never seen another living soul down here.

I’m going to look in the mirror. I am. It’s just that I need a moment to prepare.

Chapter Two

Theo

“They put me in the dungeon,” I whisper to my forlorn reflection in the empty, echoing bathroom.

This wasn’t a perk, wasn’t designed for my larger-than-human frame. These bathroom fixtures weren’t built to accommodate me, as Mrs. Grant, the HR director, told me with a straight face. This was to keep me segregated.

The back of my mind must have been compiling an unconscious litany of complaints over the last two years, because I suddenly remember that the raises I was promised at six, twelve, and twenty-four months were not forthcoming. In fact, they haven’t been mentioned since I signed my employment contract. I imagine if I look it over, all those commitments were never included in the final copy.

I want to call my brother, Alphonse. He can talk me down from my darkest moments. But for some inexplicable reason, I decide to wallow in my pain.

I don’t even give myself an extra moment to gather my courage. I unflinchingly examine my reflection.

Built to minotaur specifications, my hairy ass. Why have I never noticed that it’s hung at human height? I have to hunch to see my face, much less my horns.

I’m a minotaur. Some of the Others in the Integration Zone look kind of human. The orcs are mostly green humans with tusks. The wolven are wolfy, but still humanoid. Even the nagas, though snakelike below the waist, are pretty human above the waist.

Me? All bull.

From my white horns to my bovine snout to the hairy ruff around my throat to the fur that covers every inch of my body except for hands and hooves: Bull.

I’m quite muscular, although my pecs aren’t defined as clearly as the movie stars in Hollywood. How could they be, dammit? I’m covered in hair.

Even though I did distance learning, I tried to date in college: failure. Then I tried dating apps: giant failure. I even reached out to people in the Zone to see if one of the women raised there might be interested.

A few Skype calls showed me the error of my ways. They deemed me “too human.” Because I’d been raised by human parents, I wasn’t steeped in Other culture. They didn’t consider me a match.

Before she died, Grandmother Foster used the phrase, “Neither fish, nor fowl, nor good red herring.” It was one of her pet phrases. She wasn’t talking about me, of course. She was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.

But that phrase fits me perfectly. I don’t fit in with the Others, and I sure as hell don’t fit in with humans.

There’s that great scene in Gone With the Wind where Scarlet O’Hara is silhouetted against the darkening sky. She raises her fist and has an “as God is my witness” moment as she vows to take her life back.

I’m having one of those moments right now. As God is my witness, I’m going to find a way to fit in. Somewhere.

I march back to my desk, take one sip of the Hellagood coffee which is not only cold, but hellabad, and then toss the contents into the sink.

Every workday for two years, I’ve given a good day’s work for a crappy day’s pay. Today? Today I’m planning on letting my workload wait while I do a deep dive on the Internet.

First, I look up dad bod.

“‘Dad bod is a slang term referring to a body shape sometimes found in middle-aged men. It is used to describe the physique of a man who was once athletic, but gained a noticeable amount of body fat around the waist as he aged, leading to a ‘beer belly’.”

“Hmph.” I don’t drink beer and resent the description.

It takes another trip to the bathroom, this time not hunching, but giving an unflinching view of my midsection in the mirror. When I touch myself, the ripples are there. I’m strong and fit underneath my hair.

Suddenly, it dawns on me. Perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone. Didn’t one of those women say I was disgustingly hairy? And isn’t my hair camouflaging my fit midsection?

I stride back to my computer and type in, “Laser hair removal near me.”

Chapter Three

Zoey

“What’s this?” I ask Dawn as I point to the screen at the reception desk. “A two-hour appointment?”

I seldom schedule such things, only for long-time customers who have moved away and want to use several of my services back-to-back when they return to visit the area.

“Theodore Foster. That name isn’t familiar. Did you schedule him for a consultation? Those should be fifteen minutes max.”

Money is tight. That’s an hour and forty-five minutes of no income.

“He insisted, Zoey. Said he knew what he wanted. Laser hair removal.”

I’m about to scold her, then hold my tongue. I know how forceful people can be, and Dawn, a kindhearted woman my age, is a pushover.

“He’ll need a lot of work,” she adds. “He’s a minotaur.” As if I’m unfamiliar with his species, she adds, “An Other.”

An Other? A minotaur? Wild, lusty feelings swirl through my body. Shit. Others—especially minotaur others—are my kryptonite. Even though they’re all in a fenced-in ghetto on the other side of the continent, I fantasize about them, knowing I’ll never meet one in person here in Johnsberg, Georgia.

Still, that didn’t deter me from doing a bit of research on how to provide health and beauty services to them. I watched the few YouTube videos that dared to address the subject, then came up with some of my own ideas. Those were just pipedreams, though. I never expected to meet an Other. Certainly never expected one to waltz into my shop.

And here he is. “Dayam.” That word escapes my mouth unbidden as I watch him through the glass storefront windows. The sunlight glints off of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Horny’s horns as he twists his thick neck to glance up and down the street. His thick, corded shoulder muscles bunch and ripple, set off perfectly by the dark ruff around his face.

“Sorry,” Dawn says. “I didn’t think you might not want to work on—”

“No, Dawn. That wasn’t a damn-that’s-disgusting comment. That was a damn-he’s-fine comment.”

I perform a quick mental check to ensure my dry mouth isn’t gaping open. Nope. At least I have the self-control to look like a normal person on the outside.

Meanwhile, my mind is cataloging this giant hunk of virile male: covered with hair, masculine horns, muscled pecs I can see from thirty paces, and is that a gold earring in his ear? Kill. Me. Now.

“Kryptonite,” I whisper.

“Ohhh,” Dawn finally gets it, although by her pursed lips and shaking head, it’s obvious she doesn’t share my attraction.

“H-hello,” he stutters the moment he crosses the threshold. He retreats until his back touches the glass door, his gaze bouncing from Dawn to me and back again.

Perhaps he reads something in our expressions. I’m not sure whether it’s Dawn’s discomfort, though she’s hiding it well. Maybe it’s my hubba-hubba eyes that probably look like something out of a cartoon.

“I know I made my species clear when I booked the appointment, but I would totally understand if the aesthetician wouldn’t want to work on me.” He said the word haltingly as if he had memorized it from my website.

“Hi. Welcome to Bare Essence Beauty.” I stand where I’m planted, somehow aware that taking a step closer might make this colossal male turn and bolt. “I’m Zoey, your practitioner. Dawn will have you fill out some paperwork, then she’ll show you to the treatment room.”

Although he’s a minotaur, he has that deer, um, bull-in-the-headlights look. Can he smell my attraction? I hear some Others can do that. Way to go, Zoey. Terrify him within the first minute he’s walked through the door.

“I, uh, completed the paperwork online. And, uh, also printed it out?” He displays the intake forms in his hands without taking one step closer.

“Terrific.”

I can’t blame Dawn for being nervous. She’s never been more than fifty miles from where she was born, and therefore has a tendency to be fearful of things she deems exotic, including any brand of fizzy pop that isn’t her usual. Trying to counteract any negative vibes he might be getting from her, I give him a welcoming smile and wave him toward me.

After settling him into a chair in my treatment room, and then closing the door, I review his intake forms.

He’s checked no services other than laser hair removal, which makes me wonder exactly how much thought he’s given this. He must be at least moderately intelligent because he maneuvered the maze of intake paperwork even though I’ve never managed to fix my wonky website. Most people just shrug when they get here and ask if they can fill out their paperwork in the waiting room because they couldn’t access the online forms.

Does he realize the procedure he’s requesting is going to make him look like a plucked chicken?

It’s clear he’s anxious. His right hoof is beating a strident tattoo on the linoleum floor. I’m going to have to use a lot of tact, which, sadly, I’m not known for.

“Okay. I usually schedule the first appointment as a consult, so let’s start with the basics.” My room is equipped with a hair station, complete with a stylist chair and large mirror. I occasionally do cuts and colors, but it’s the esthetician side of my business that’s my bread and butter.

I turn his chair to face the mirror, step close behind him and almost slide my fingers through that amazing ruff of his. It’s calling to me. I can’t help it.

Gathering my self-control, I ask, “May I?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

Zoey, do not moan, I counsel myself as my fingers card through his thick mahogany ruff.

“So… this? You’re not wanting me to remove this, right?” That was barely a question. Even if he begs me to laser it, I’ll refuse. It’s just too… gorgeous and lush, although it could use a deep conditioning treatment.

“Yes? I thought you’d remove… everything.”

For a big, strong guy, he sure seems ready to bolt. I decide the best way to address this is to ask some questions, see what his motivation is.

“Can you help me…” I check his name on the top of the form sitting on my workstation, “Theodore? Tell me what prompted your desire to get your hair permanently removed?”

“Call me Theo.” He pauses for so long, I realize that even if Dawn had done her job correctly and only booked him for fifteen minutes, it wouldn’t have been enough time for the consult.

“I recently realized that certain things are keeping me from… fitting in. It was pointed out—” He stops himself and looks down with shame. I don’t need to be great at reading people to figure out that whatever someone pointed out was not communicated in a kind or respectful manner. “It was mentioned that I’m… hirsute.”

I don’t believe I have ever heard that word uttered out loud except by someone who felt deep shame at the amount of hair on their body.

“I see. Yes. You have a lot of hair, but tell me, Theo, doesn’t that come with the territory? I mean, you’re a minotaur.” Was that a bit too direct? Too bold? Maybe, but I said it with compassion and the utmost respect.

“Well, yes.”

“See, I’ve been doing this for a while, and gosh…” I shrug. “When I picture denuding you, I imagine you’d look a little like a plucked chicken. Well,” I giggle, “A giant plucked chicken.”

“Really? I got the impression it might make me a… well… a tiny bit more… attractive.”

I’d already figured out he was probably here because of body image issues, but I’m glad he admitted what the catalyst was for this major life decision.

“Do you know why I chose this profession, Theo?” Gosh, I like the way his name feels on my lips.

After turning his chair ninety degrees so his back is to the mirror, I settle into a chair across from him. It’s lower than his chair, only highlighting our height differences.

“No, Ma’am.”

I don’t know why he’s not with the rest of the Others in L.A., but that was spoken like a true Southern boy. Be still my heart.

“Call me Zoey. I decided to become an esthetician because I had some… hirsute issues of my own. Guess what my fifteenth birthday present was from my parents.”

He shakes his head, not hazarding a guess. Probably a good idea.

“A round of laser hair removal treatments for my embarrassing upper lip problem. At fifteen, I was working on a better mustache than most of the boys in my grade. Not exactly what a teenage girl needs.”

Old remnants of embarrassment blaze through me like heat lightning. Junior high. I remember absolutely nothing of my studies, but I can recall in perfect detail many of the taunts, eyerolls, and teasing. Those weren’t good years for me.

There’s something about my frank admission that relaxes him. His shoulders sag a bit and he releases the softest, sexiest sigh. This male is double kryptonite—handsome and humble. It should be illegal.

“Those treatments gave me more confidence, more self-esteem than I would have guessed. I love my job. Because of the Hope Scholarship that Georgia gives for post-secondary learning, I not only got my esthetician license but my cosmetology license as well. Now I own this little shop.”

I rise, turn his chair around, and stand behind him so our eyes meet in the mirror.

“So, is it that you want your hair removed? Or do you want a makeover?”

Even as the words come out of my mouth, I imagine at least half a dozen treatments I can do for him that will increase this gorgeous male’s self-esteem.

“Well. As I said, some things were pointed out to me. The hair. And my… dad bod, though I’ll need to go to a gym to address that.”

Who. The. Fuck decimated this male’s ego? I want to hurt them. It’s all I can do to keep my hands from clenching and unclenching at my sides.

“Are you shitting— I mean, kidding me?”

Could he have more muscles? I mean, really? This male has slabs upon slabs of muscles, all nicely camouflaged by all that gorgeous hair. He’s not like a bodybuilder, all shaved and slicked up in baby oil to show off their hours of training at the gym.

This male comes by his physique naturally. And the only women who get to know just what deliciousness lurks under all that luscious hair are the ones lucky enough to date him.

“Um?” is his only response to my unprofessional question about the veracity of his dad-bod comment.

“I think you’ve been dating the wrong women. But we’ll discuss that later. Here’s my professional opinion. I suggest we give you a makeover. Dawn had the foresight to book you a long appointment. We can get a lot done in that amount of time.”

“Oh?”

Poor guy is speechless. Somehow, I imagine there’s a lot more going on inside that handsome head than the monosyllables he’s been sharing with me.

I give myself the treat of drifting my fingers through his hair as my gaze connects with his in the mirror.

“First, a hair and ruff wash and a deep, conditioning oil treatment. Then the slightest—and I do mean slightest—trim. Just to shape things a bit. Then a manicure and hoof-i-cure. There’s enough time for Dawn to run out and grab some hoof polish from the local feed store. Would you prefer black or dark brown?”

“I…”

“Dark brown would blend well with your natural coat, but I’m thinking black, Theo. A statement. Daring. El-e-gant.”

His face didn’t look convinced until that last word, which I enunciated into three distinct syllables.

“Yes, black.”

He’s nodding. For the first time since we met, he looks certain of an answer.

After asking Dawn to run out to buy the polish, I say, “I want you to get what you paid for. If there’s time at the end, I can give you a hand and neck massage. What do you think?”

There’s a long pause. Funny, even though I’ve known him less than half an hour, I’m pretty certain it’s the prospect of a massage that’s tripping him up.

“Or not. We can stick with the hair and hoof care. Some people just don’t enjoy a mass—”

“Yes. A neck massage sounds… great.”