I catch myself immediately, forcing my expression back to the polite, practiced calm that’s carried me through countless boardrooms and negotiations, all while praying he didn’t notice the thwap of embarrassment behind me.
“Not who I expected,” I say lightly, stepping inside. Voice even. Controlled.
The man straightens, clears his throat. “Jamie,” he says, offering his name as though it’s an apology. His voice carries a thread of nerves beneath the practicedprofessionalism. “Oh. Hi. I mean, hello.” He pushes his round, black glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m helping while Vanessa is out.”
“Ah,” I reply. “You must be one of the new junior strategists in Mr. Frost’s program.”
Franklin Frost—our formidable Director of Being Resources and, as the tabloids never fail to remind us, an abominable snowman who can freeze an entire boardroom with one arched brow. He’s the mastermind behind Labyrinth Solutions’ Hiring Initiative, making sure every kind of talent has a seat at the table, and Frank won’t settle for anything less than the creative sparks that fly when everyone brings their best ideas into the mix.
Truth be told, he’s right. There’s always work to do. Bringing new ideas, perspectives, and talents together isn’t automatic. And yet, Frank has a way of turning hesitation into excitement, of making progress feel inevitable. I admire his relentlessness. It’s what makes him the perfect yeti to lead BR.
I let my gaze linger over Jamie for a moment longer, studying him the way I would a line item in a proposal. He’s young. Or at least younger than me. I’ll be fifty next year, but folks never can really tell my age. I’ve looked this way since I was fourteen, and there’s not a single gray hair in my mane. I’d put Jamie in his mid-thirties. He’s got those adorable fine lines humans get around their eyes at about that age. There’s a faint smell of… peppermint. He doesn’t appear to have anything in his mouth, and my nostrils try to ascertain the source. His nerves seem to betray him, but he’s not without a backbone. If he’s made itthrough Frank’s gauntlet of interviews, then there’s more steel here than he lets on.
“Um. Well…” He sits up a little straighter, his chest puffing out slightly. “Yes, Jamie Torres. Junior Strategist. That’s me.”
Jamie Torres. The name clicks into place like a key.
I walk across the room, my pace calm, deliberate. The point is to reassure, not dominate. To lead the moment without crowding it. I extend a hand.
He hesitates for the briefest fraction of a second before accepting. Perhaps he’s never given a Minotaur a handshake before—three broad fingers and a thumb, a grip built for strength rather than the intricacies of greetings. I keep my claws trimmed short. Neat. It’s all part of the polished executive experience. His palm presses into mine, firmer than I expected. Warm. Distinctly, unmistakably warm.
His scent—a sharp, heady tingle with just a trace of arousal—hits my nose, and my tail lashes out, smacking his leg before I even realize it.
“Magnus Trainor,” I say, pulling my tail back. “Vanessa’s… supervisor.” I let the pause land just so, neither threatening nor indulgent.
“Of course. You’re the CEO.” He nods. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Trainor.”
The way he says it—it isn’t like the others. Not breathless. Not fawning. His eyes linger on my face, curious. Evaluating.
And for the first time in a very long time, I feel seen.
I withdraw my hand before the moment can stretch.Smooth my jacket sleeve. Will my tail to be still. Gesture to the files he’s arranged. “I see she’s already put you to work.”
The left side of Jamie’s mouth turns up the slightest bit. “She left me copious instructions.”
“Good.” My voice is steady, but inside, that current is alive, sparking hot under my fur.
For a heartbeat, the office is quiet, the hum of the city drifting through the glass. Vanessa’s sleek desk looms between us, a sharp divider I can’t ignore. Sunlight slants through the window, painting him in sharp relief, like some careless deity meant for me to notice every line of him. Peppermint drifts between us—subtle at first, then stronger as I lean in. It takes a moment to place it: his hair. The realization sends a flicker of heat through me.
I force myself to turn, to glance at the skyline instead. Professional. Restrained. “Tell Vanessa I’ll see her at three. And welcome to Labyrinth Solutions, Mr. Torres.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jamie nods again, polite, composed in that way junior staff try so hard to be. “But I’m not sure you understand. Vanessa isn’t here. She’s… sick. I’m going to be covering for her until she returns.”
The words land heavier than he likely intends. Covering. Stepping into her place. I keep my posture loose, my tone light, though my mind is already moving several steps ahead—budgets, pitch decks, client relations.
For a heartbeat, I study him. Jamie Torres. Nervous, but not weak. The touch of his hand still lingers, the echo of warmth against my fur, foreign and distracting. Hisgaze doesn’t quite flinch away the way others often do. Sure, he’s inexperienced, but there’s something in the way he holds himself that suggests he might be more than a temporary stand-in.
I lower my chin. “Then it seems you and I will be working closely, Mr. Torres.”
His breath catches—just barely—but he tilts his head up and meets my eyes. “Yes, sir.”
I offer him a smile that has soothed rivals and charmed investors alike, carefully measured, no more than necessary. Inside, however, something stirs, the faintest pull toward the man at the desk. It is nothing I will allow to distract me.
My tail whooshes like a metronome I cannot control, betraying every pulse of my blood.
Business first. Always.
Still, as I move to take the chair across from Vanessa's desk, I can’t help but think: this will be… interesting.
