Her Mistletoe Minotaur: A BWWM Paranormal Holiday Romance (A Very Alpha Christmas Book 1)

by Erin St. Charles

  Tu cleared her throat. She was definitely looking at his back, waiting for him to turn around. So, he turned around with the reluctance of one facing a firing squad.

  And there she was. Her long braids cascaded around her shoulders, except for the one she twirled around a finger. The low light cast a warm glow across her face. She was sitting cross-legged on top of the duvet now. She wasn't very tall, but all of her height seemed to be in her legs. She was cute. And sexy.

  She smiled at him. "Looks like we're roomies!"

  CHAPTER SIX

  You're a mean one, Mr. Mitch

  Tu foolishly assumed the initial impression she'd formed of Mitch Wayne had been colored by the stress of the situation she'd found herself in.

  Yes, that was it! She'd been tired, trying to push through those last few miles of the 1100-mile journey from Dayton, Ohio to Perdition, Texas. She'd been tired and hungry. She'd been driving an unfamiliar road, then she'd driven off that unfamiliar road. All of this had contributed to a feeling of discombobulation that made her perception of Mitch Wayne, minotaur shifter and owner of the local wrecking and tow company, entirely inaccurate.

  Because, no way could anyone be that rude. Especially to someone he didn't even know. It just wasn't possible. And she, Petunia Josephine Greene, was a cheerful, upbeat sort of person who tended to bring goodness and light into people's lives. Pretty much everyone liked Tu.

  Everyone but Mitch Wayne liked her. What was wrong with Mitch Wayne?

  Someone who checked on her several times a night because she might have a concussion must like her a little, right? Because who took such loving and conscientious care of a stranger they didn't like, even a little?

  But Mitch Wayne was perpetually grumpy for some unfathomable reason. His expressions ranged from scowling to constipated. His speech rarely amounted to more than a few troglodyte-type grunts. He never smiled, and it was only because she'd seen him put food in his mouth and chew it that she knew he actually had teeth.

  She had been at Stately Wayne Cabin for 36 hours. In that time, she didn't think he'd exchanged more than twelve words with her. As she sat alone in the expansive great room of the house, watching snow fall once again, she counted the words he'd said to her in that time.

  Just about everything she’d asked of him had been met with a one-word answer: sure.

  "May I borrow your smartphone? I'd like to call my sister/parents/aunt/college roommate/best friend/whatever?" she'd ask.

  "Sure," the huge man would say, probing the back pocket of his jeans and extracting it. He'd hand her the device by pinching it between two of his giant fingers. The man was huge and stocky, and everything about him was the same. Big and broad. His hands were like dinner plates. His feet, like boats.

  Then she'd say, "Thanks," and flash one of her signature, upbeat smiles. One with lots of sincerity, joy, and teeth. To this, he'd say...well, nothing. He’d said nothing at all. He'd just give her a nod of acknowledgment, like a laconic cowboy of old.

  Then there were his weather reports. In the day and a half since she'd proclaimed Mitch to be her "Roommate!" he'd given her several updates on the weather, mainly, to inform her that it was still snowing.

  "It's not letting up any time soon," he had said. Okay, so that phrase, plus the monosyllabic "sure" added up to...eight.

  Eight words.

  Tu didn't get it. Mitch was a good-looking dude. He was at least 300 pounds of muscle, tall, had neatly groomed facial hair, and (she assumed) all his teeth. She'd found herself gazing at the way his muscles rippled underneath the Henleys he favored on more than one occasion. He was extremely lean with veins standing out from the back of his hands and up his forearms, a testament to his lack of excess body fat. His eyes were an unusual shade of pale green, his face was classically handsome.

  He was good-looking bordering on flat out gorgeous.

  Sighing, Tu set aside the tablet Mitch had given her for entertainment. She could read on it, or watch some 2D entertainment. She'd fallen into an impromptu marathon of Christmas movies.

  The house was huge and empty of people, and she was bored. She didn't want to watch more movies. She only saw Mitch at mealtimes, and then, only if she waited around for him. She'd seen him at one lunch, a late one she'd had the day after he'd brought her to the "cabin," which in truth was a big ass log and wooden beamed rustic mansion. And she’d seen him briefly around dinnertime the day before. He was in the kitchen at the same time she was finishing up a bowl of tomato soup. He gave her the cowboy nod, retrieved some kind of sandwich from the cooler along with a Lone Star, then retreated.

  The only upside to his disappearing act was that she was treated to his muscular ass as he walked out the door. It was round and firm and made her wonder what kind of deep squats he dedicated himself to in order to achieve that level of firmness. She'd seen him again at dinner, just in passing. She had no idea where he went when she didn't see him. Once, she'd seen him leaving the house to go somewhere in his wrecker.

  It had occurred to her that it was only a few days until Christmas, and no decorations had been put up in the cabin. That was weird. Since she had nothing to do but watch movie after movie, and she wasn't going to Jasmine's house any time soon, decking the halls would be a great way to pass the time. And she'd get to meet her elusive roommate.

  Tu had seen Mitch, briefly, at lunch. She was sitting in the kitchen, having her own lunch, when he'd come in to help himself to a sandwich, which had already been prepared at some other time.

  "What kind of sandwich is that?" she'd asked him, flashing her friendliest smile.

  He'd looked at her, stricken, brows furrowed. His large body had frozen in the motion of beating it out of the kitchen. He blinked at her.

  "Vegetable," he mumbled, then he hurried out of the kitchen like he had a plane to catch, leaving her to look at him and gape. It was like he was repelled by her...or afraid of her.

  Which was 100% ridiculous. She intended to find him and tell him so. She was tired of puttering around the house alone, bored out of her mind. Mitch was shy, but she could bring him out of his shell. She knew she could.

  Stately Wayne Cabin had a lot of rooms. Where could he be? The day before, when he was out driving around in his wrecker, she'd done a bit of snooping. She'd located the master bedroom, or what she assumed was the master. It had a lived-in look the rest of the bedrooms did not have. It looked similar to her guest room, only on a larger scale, and her mind briefly wandered to the idea of cuddling with him in this massive bed, enjoying his warmth and scent...

  Then she’d reminded herself that, attractive though he may be, Mitch was not her type. She preferred men who were not grumpy. Men who were friendly, actually talked to her, and smiled.

  Still, as she searched the cabin for Mitch, her under-stimulated mind roamed back to the night he brought her here. Even when she’d ignored his advice, which in retrospect was a dumb thing to do, he had treated her with care and respect. He'd even brought her bag to her after grabbing and depositing her safely in the truck of his wrecker. He'd called her sister to let Jazzy know she was okay. He’d called the doctor to make sure she was okay, then he’d checked her throughout the night to make sure she was able to wake up.

  Maybe he was actually nicer to her than his grumpy manner suggested?

  Mitch wasn't in the master bedroom, the kitchen, any of the seven bathrooms, or the six other bedrooms. Tu found a door several yards away from her bedroom and was surprised to find it led up to a large, light-filled attic. There were many boxes, along with furniture covered in tarps. Tu was almost pathologically curious, and the desire to explore was strong. Mitch hadn't shown her this space...but he hadn't told her to stay out of it, either.

  But she was on a mission: find Mitch Wayne and make him be nice to her.

  As she closed the attic door behind her, she resolved to explore the area later, during one of the times when Mitch decided it was time to ignore her.

  She went down the two fligh
ts of stairs, preparing to call Mitch's name, when she heard grunting in the direction of the home office, an expansive space set behind the kitchen. Tu had looked into the office but had not gone in before. She found herself tip-toeing through the kitchen, heading for the office. The lights were out, making the room dark and gloomy. It was winter, after all, and it got dark late in the afternoon this time of year.

  More grunting sounds came from the office. More specifically, a doorway in the back of the office, which was partially open and cast a sliver of bright light over the hardwood floor.

  Tu moved over the floor on socked feet with the stealth of a Ninja, her heart beating hard in her chest in anticipation. This was a secret room. When closed, the door would blend into the wall like one of those secret doors off the Oval Office.

  Tu had had all kinds of questions about Mitch since she'd met him. This curiosity was fueled by the fact that Mitch was determined not to share anything about himself with her. She had figured out that he was keeping her at arm's length, but she had no idea why. What could he possibly have against her? But as she moved closer to the light, her mind thrummed with the idea—one she couldn't shake—that she was about to learn something critical about him. Something that would make the tumblers fall into place, unlocking the mystery and revealing the secret of Mitch Wayne.

  Because not only was this a secret room, it was Mitch's secret room. The place where he went when he was hiding from her. The secret room that possibly held the answers to her questions about the big, brooding minotaur.

  When she was mere inches from the door, she realized there was a rhythm to the grunting. She paused, listening, and tried to discern what was going on in there, but nothing came to mind. Brows creased; she closed her eyes in order to listen better. Yes, there was a pattern and a rhythm.

  He's counting.

  He was counting, she realized, puzzled for just a moment before clarity descended. The counting. The grunting.

  Holy Toledo, he was exercising.

  Now, her heart beat almost out of her chest. Blood pounded in her ears. Thinking of how he'd filled out his Henley and jeans, blood pounded to her nether regions. What was he wearing now? She wanted to know.

  She opened the door...just a crack.

  And there he was. He was turned away, his back to the door, and he was doing what appeared to be some sort of push-ups, but instead of pushing up from the floor, he was pushing up from two grip bars somehow anchored into the wall. She wondered, vaguely, how he was able to reinforce the wall enough for the bars to accommodate his no doubt hefty weight.

  As he pushed up, she noticed he had something around his neck. Some kind of giant chain. Several of them, in fact, and they clanged on the floor as he pushed up. He was shirtless and only wore a pair of loose shorts.

  The grunting and counting she heard before? It was him counting reps. The metallic clanging? The big ass chains he wore like Mardi Gras beads. For additional resistance, she supposed, because the 300 plus pounds of weight he normally carried around with him wasn’t enough to keep his muscles in top condition.

  His back muscles rippled with each rep. His broad shoulders tapered to a smaller waist, and a muscular ass that she now imagined gripping as he pounded her into oblivion. She could climb on his back and ride him while he did his push-ups on steroids. She'd make great additional resistance.

  She thought his muscles had muscles. He was sculpted like a classical statue. She imagined her fingertips tracing the ridges and dips of his muscles.

  And she saw elaborate tattoos adorned the wide expanse of his back. The ink so skillfully executed that it somehow followed the contours of his back muscles. He was still grunting out his reps. She wondered how many reps he had to go.

  She realized, distantly, that she was intruding. Any moment now, he would turn around and point this out to her. But she was fascinated by the roll and ripple of those muscles, the way the beautiful tattoo moved with him, and something else. Something she felt only the faintest whiff of the night he rescued her. She noticed he was handsome then, and now she noticed what his looks, his presence, his scent did to her.

  Lust.

  It slammed into her so suddenly that she was momentarily befuddled. She liked men, but she was friendly, not flirtatious. She didn't bat her eyes at men because it made her feel weird and cheap to do so. She also didn't experience insta-lust with men, strangers. Strange men who were rude to her, who ignored her, were just not her thing.

  A trickle of sweat trailed down Mitch’s back. A small sweat stain gathered at where his basketball shorts met his waist. Tu let out an involuntary sigh.

  The push-ups stopped. Mitch froze in the motion of dipping below the bars, turned his head to listen, then turned it more to look. His cold green eyes gave her a flat stare. He dismounted and, with his back to her, removed the chains and let them drop to the floor. He grabbed a towel from a nearby hook and wiped his face as he turned around to look at her.

  His light brown hair, a color that could also be called dirty blond, long enough for a man bun, was damp with sweat, and a few stray strands lay plastered over his forehead from where he had dragged the towel. He tilted his chin up and stared down his nose at her, pale green eyes cold and assessing.

  Then he approached her, stopping just outside of her personal space. Still, the man loomed over her. He was so damned tall.

  She should apologize for invading his privacy. For sneaking up on him and gawping at him shamelessly. He'd dragged her trailer up a hill, then loaded it and her car in the flatbed of his wrecker. He'd taken her in to ride out the storm, offered her a warm, safe place to stay, called her sister and the doctor, and looked out for her that night when she might have had a concussion.

  And now here she was. Her parents, who had scolded her about driving all that way by herself, who had discouraged her from taking the job in Perdition in the first place, would give her a stern look. Her mother would kiss her teeth and tsk tsk.

  "Why don't you join our real estate practice?" her mother would say, apparently not understanding why one of her children wouldn’t want front-row seats to their parent’s dysfunction.

  What would she say about Tu's choices now?

  Mitch's expression turned from assessing to curious. Then to hooded. Then to longing.

  I want him. He wants me, too, Tu thought to herself.

  There was nothing to say. None of her chirpy greetings seemed appropriate at the moment, especially in the face of that stare. A muscle ticked in Mitch’s jaw. Tu’s womanhood swelled and tingled, and she was gob smacked by her reaction. The trouble was, she wasn't sure what to do next.

  "It's snowing again," she said stupidly.

  His longing expression didn't change, but he didn't make any further moves to get closer. He did keep wiping sweat off himself, not saying anything, just looking.

  She looked away, trying to remember why she wanted to find him in the first place. She bit her bottom lip, trying to remember, then met his eyes again.

  Those eyes. Those haunting green eyes were fixated on her mouth. And Tu blushed hard. Her skin flooded with warmth so suddenly that her skin pricked. She fought the urge to squirm.

  "What I mean is, obviously I'm not going to my sister's anytime soon," she rambled, but seemed to lack the mental faculties to stop the verbal outpouring. "I mean, since it's still snowing, I'm not moving into her guest house anytime soon. Or actually, her fiancé's guest house."

  He kept looking at her with that lusty expression. But his body didn't follow the desire she saw reflected in his eyes. It was kind of confusing.

  She carried on rambling. Why, she didn't really know, because clearly, neither of them were doing exactly what they wanted to be doing at the moment.

  "So, I was wondering if you would like to...watch a Christmas movie with me? We can maybe pop some popcorn and watch a movie together?"

  He blinked at her. He looked confused, then thoughtful, and the lust in his eyes receded.

  Then he said, "
Are you sure your sister wants you living in her backyard?"

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Scared Grinches

  If Tu was at all daunted by Mitch's rudeness, he wouldn't be able to tell by her cheerful chatter. After the odd run-in with her during his workout, he decided running away from her wasn't working as a way to discourage her interest in him, and that it would be better to show her what a bad idea it was to be interested in him instead.

  Judging by the blazing lust he'd seen in her eyes when she'd found him in his secret home gym, Mitch knew at some level that pointing out the obvious to her would be to no avail. She was sweet and he was sour; she was outgoing, and he was taciturn. Not to mention the fact that unless she had found the Fountain of Youth or some scientifically advanced moisturizer, he was probably twenty years too old for her.

  So, he showered, threw on a pair of sweats, and prepared to watch a Christmas movie with her.

  Only, when he entered the great room, she wasn't there. But he did smell something burning in the kitchen.

  Following his nose, Mitch found Tu removing a charred mess from the cooker. She was turned sideways, holding the composite bowl, frowning. Her brows were creased, and her face, uncharacteristically unhappy. He felt a twinge of sympathy in his gut for her. Also, the errant thought that she looked cute and vulnerable, and he wanted to give her a hug, skipped through his mind. And after giving her a hug, he could maybe pick her up and cuddle her. On his lap.

  She turned to look at him, her expression stricken. She chewed her trembling bottom lip, evidently to keep from crying.

  He turned on his gruff persona and stalked to her.

  "What's this?" he asked her, peering into the bowl. It looked kind of like tiny scorched peas.