Never Text a Minotaur: A Cozy Monster Romance (Wrong Move, Right Monster), page 1
NEVER TEXT A MINOTAUR
A COZY MONSTER ROMANCE
WRONG MOVE, RIGHT MONSTER
HONEY PHILLIPS
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Other Titles
About the Author
Copyright © 2026 by Honey Phillips
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author.
Disclaimer
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Carol Marques
Edited by Lindsay York at LY Publishing Services
Formatted with Vellum
CHAPTER ONE
The third time my hip collided with the corner of my desk, I swore it was personal.
“Just once,” I muttered, rubbing what would definitely become another bruise, “I’d like to make it through a single day without injuring myself on stationary objects.”
The precarious stack of mythology books perched on the edge of the desk shifted ominously, and I froze, one hand still pressed to my hip. I watched in horror as Norse Mythology: The Comprehensive Guide tilted, then slid. I lunged, catching three heavy volumes against my chest while Dragons Through the Ages hit the floor with a dusty thump.
“Perfect,” I muttered, blowing a strand of hair from my eyes. “Just perfect.”
Mrs. Abernathy, our most faithful patron at eighty-seven years young, glanced up from her mystery novel, her eyes twinkling. “Another run-in with the furniture, dear?”
“The desk started it,” I replied, flashing her a smile before I scooped up the fallen book and added it back to the stack on my desk, which was already buried under research notes, coffee mugs with varying levels of yesterday’s caffeine, and a collection of sticky notes with increasingly panicked reminders to myself.
I’d love to say such moments were rare, but my life was essentially a blooper reel with occasional moments of competence. Don’t get me wrong—I was actually good at my job. I could recite the Dewey Decimal System backwards while half-asleep, recommend the perfect book for anyone’s current life crisis, and repair a damaged spine with surgical precision.
I just couldn’t seem to navigate physical space without incident.
But another bruise was the least of my problems. I picked up my phone and stared down at the unsent text message, my thumb hovering over the send button.
“Come on, Clara,” I whispered to myself. “Just send the stupid text.”
Before I could make myself do it, someone dropped a book and the noise made me jump. My thumb, possessed by a particularly clumsy gremlin, slipped.
Message sent.
At least it was done now, and the Willowbrook Library remained blissfully silent around me, unaware that I’d just potentially humiliated myself. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced through shafts of light like tiny bookish fairies. My own personal library spirits, guarding forgotten tales and keeping watch over dog-eared pages.
Half-empty display shelves loomed mockingly beside me, waiting for the “Mythological Creatures: Fact versus Fiction” exhibit that my boss Mrs. Wilson expected to be completed by the time she returned from vacation at the end of the week. I’d actually suggested the exhibit myself in a moment of enthusiasm I now deeply regretted. The concept was solid—an exploration of mythological beings across cultures, pairing the fictional works featuring said creatures with nonfiction books examining their zoological origins.
The execution, however, was proving problematic.
The library, housed in a converted Victorian mansion, was charming in every way that mattered with original woodwork, stained glass accents, window seats perfect for losing yourself in a book—and completely impractical in every way that counted. Like, for instance, having fifteen-foot-high shelves with no way to safely reach the top shelves unless you were an NBA player or possessed wings.
The old rolling ladder had broken last week—under me, naturally—and until a replacement arrived, the top shelves might as well have been on the moon. Which was a problem, because all the oversized, beautiful, absolutely essential display books lived approximately three feet beyond my reach.
I checked my phone again, staring at the message I’d just sent to Mark Harrison, my across-the-hall neighbor with the easy smile, impossibly blue eyes, and—most importantly right now—a pickup truck and handyman skills.
We weren’t friends exactly, more like familiar strangers who occasionally collected each other’s misdelivered mail. But a few days ago, after he’d helped me carry groceries up three flights of stairs following an unfortunate paper bag collapse in the lobby, he’d scribbled his number on the back of a Home Depot receipt.
“If you ever need anything,” he’d said with a wink that I still wasn’t sure how to interpret.
Had he really meant it, or would he now think I was completely unhinged based on the text I’d just sent?
Hi Mark! It’s Clara from 3B. Sorry to bother you, but I have a bit of a ladder emergency at the library where I work. Need to reach some high shelves for a display, and our stepladder is basically a death trap. Any chance you could lend me one? Or even better, bring one by? I’d be eternally grateful! My bullheaded boss left for vacation and expects this done by her return. Help?
The mortification was almost enough to make me want to hide behind the reference desk for the remainder of my professional career. I’d debated for thirty minutes about whether to text him at all, then spent another twenty minutes crafting and deleting various versions of the message.
In my defense, I’d only had four hours of sleep after staying up researching differences between Eastern and Western dragon mythology. The multiple exclamation points and emojis were clearly a symptom of desperation and caffeine.
I glanced anxiously at my phone. No response yet.
Maybe he’s at work. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s wondering who the crazy emoji lady is and why she’s talking about bullheaded bosses.
I bit my lip, suddenly second-guessing myself as I stared at the crumpled piece of paper. His handwriting was terrible, but I’d been too distracted by… well, by him and the way his T-shirt had hugged his shoulders to ask him to clarify it.
I looked down at the number again. The last digit—was that a 7 or a 9? I squinted, trying to remember. I assumed it was a 9, but hadn’t he said something about lucky sevens?
A cold feeling settled in my stomach.
Oh no.
“Please be Mark,” I whispered to my phone, as if it could somehow correct any potential error through sheer force of will.
I set the device face down on my desk, deciding that staring at it wouldn’t make a response come any faster. Besides, I had work to do—ladder or no ladder.
The mythology display couldn’t wait, even if I could only use books on the lower shelves for now. I grabbed Mermaids: Sirens of the Deep and began arranging it alongside The Psychology Behind Sea Monster Sightings.
The books brought an immediate sense of comfort. This was my element—stories of creatures that straddled the line between reality and imagination, between science and magic. I’d been fascinated by mythology since I was eight years old and found an illustrated book of Greek myths in my school library.
That fascination had carried me through a Masters in Library Science with a focus on Folklore and Mythology Studies, and eventually to this small-town library where I’d been given free rein to modernize the collections and create engaging displays.
If only that freedom came with proper equipment.
I worked methodically through the lower shelves, organizing books into thematic sections—water creatures, beings of fire, shapeshifters, and guardian monsters. My anxiety about the text faded as I lost myself in the familiar routine, mentally composing informational cards for each section.
When my phone finally buzzed twenty minutes later, I nearly knocked over a carefully balanced stack of werewolf novels in my haste to check it.
No text message. Just a calendar reminder about tomorrow’s story hour.
“Get it together, Clara,” I muttered, smoothing my cardigan and tucking my hair behind my ears.
I returned to the remaining books, eyeing the upper shelves with growing frustration. The beautiful leather-bound edition of Mythological Atlas needed to be the centerpiece of the display. The hand-painted illustrations inside were breathtaking, exactly the kind of thing that would draw visitors in.
I stood on my tiptoes and stretched upwards, fingers barely grazing the lowest part of the shelf I needed to reach.
Maybe if I used the desk chair? The one with wheels? The one that spun alarmingly if you shifted your weight too quickly?
Absolutely not. I’m clumsy, not suicidal.
I tried jumping, which accomplished nothing except making me feel ridiculous.
This was hopeless without a ladder. I needed Mark and his theoretical ladder. Or any ladder, really. I was not picky at this point.
By the time I locked up that evening, I still hadn’t received a response to my text. The knot of anxiety in my stomach had been slowly tightening all afternoon. I’d tried to rationalize it—maybe Mark was out of town, or busy, or simply didn’t check his phone often. But the worry that I’d texted the wrong number, that I’d sent that mortifying message to a complete stranger, had taken root.
I should call him. Just to make sure. Except that calling seemed even more forward than texting, and if I had the wrong number… I’d have to talk to a confused stranger.
No. Better to just wait.
My apartment building was one of those old brick structures that had seen better days but still held onto a certain faded elegance. I climbed the three flights of stairs to my floor, my footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. The building had an elevator, but it made sounds like a dying whale and often got stuck between floors, so I usually took the stairs. My hip throbbed in protest with every step.
On the landing outside my door, I lingered for a minute, looking across at Mark’s door, hoping it would open so I could “accidentally” run into him. But his door remained firmly closed and I didn’t quite have the courage to knock. Instead, I let myself into my apartment with a defeated sigh.
CHAPTER TWO
Once inside my apartment, I tossed my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door—a lopsided creation I’d made during a “Find Your Inner Artist” workshop that had primarily helped me find my inner impatience—and kicked off my flats. One sailed gracefully under the couch. The other landed in my small collection of potted plants, most of which were valiantly clinging to life despite my erratic watering schedule.
“Sorry, Ferdinand,” I murmured to the fern, retrieving my shoe from his fronds.
My apartment was what real estate agents charitably called “cozy”—a one-bedroom with just enough space for my essentials: books, more books, and the minimum furniture required for human habitation. Bookshelves lined every available wall, each one categorized by a system that made perfect sense to me and absolutely no one else. Fiction by mood rather than author. Non-fiction by how much it had changed my worldview. A special shelf for books with particularly satisfying endings.
I changed into my comfort clothes—ancient university sweatpants and a faded t-shirt proclaiming “Introverted But Willing to Discuss Books”—before padding into the kitchen. Dinner would be whatever I could cobble together from my refrigerator’s sparse offerings, which tonight appeared to be half an avocado turning suspiciously brown, some questionable cheese, and three eggs.
“Gourmet dining at its finest,” I mumbled, pulling out a frying pan.
As I waited for the pan to heat, I checked my phone. Again. Still nothing. I tried to convince myself that Mark’s silence was perfectly normal. He was probably busy. Working. Living his life without obsessively checking his phone every three minutes like some people. Some people meaning me.
Stop it, Clara. He’s not obligated to respond to your ladder crisis.
But my brain, unhelpfully, had already composed a comprehensive list of reasons for Mark’s silence:
1.He was trapped under heavy machinery with no access to his phone.
2.He’d read my message and found it so bizarre he was currently showing it to all his friends at a bar.
3.He’d been kidnapped by international ladder thieves.
4.He was deliberately ignoring me because who texts someone about library ladders?
5.He was crafting the perfect response, and perfection takes time.
Number five seemed the least likely.
I scrambled my eggs with more aggression than they deserved, occasionally glancing at my stubbornly silent phone. By the time I’d finished eating and washing up, checking my phone had evolved from casual glance to compulsive ritual.
“This is ridiculous,” I announced to my empty apartment. “I am a grown woman obsessing over a text to your neighbor about a ladder.”
My bookshelves offered no counterargument.
I settled onto my small sofa with my current read—a surprisingly engaging history of medieval manuscripts—but found myself reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word. The quiet of my apartment seemed to amplify the absence of notification sounds.
Five minutes later, I was pacing.
“He’s just busy,” I told Ferdinand the fern. “Or maybe he doesn’t have his phone.” Ferdinand drooped slightly, either in agreement or silent judgment of my deteriorating composure.
Another circuit of my living room. Another glance at my phone. Another entirely rational explanation for Mark’s silence—he’d fallen into a spontaneous coma.
“This is why you don’t have a social life, Clara,” I muttered. “You’re incapable of sending a normal text without spiraling into catastrophic overthinking.”
The problem wasn’t just the silence. It was the doubt now creeping in about the text itself. Had it been too forward? Too desperate? Too emoji-laden? Had I crossed some invisible line in neighbor-to-neighbor communication protocol?
I flopped back onto the sofa, dragging a throw pillow over my face. “Social suicide via text message. Not my finest moment.”
My phone buzzed.
I launched off the couch so violently that I knocked over a stack of library journals I’d been meaning to read for months. Scrambling for my phone, I nearly dropped it twice before finally steadying my hands enough to check the screen.
One new message from “Mark (Hot Neighbor)”.
Just one character: a period. A single, solitary dot.
“.”
I stared at it, my brain temporarily unable to process this minimalist response. What did it mean? Was it an accident? A typo? The beginning of a longer message that got cut off? A deliberate punctuation mark designed to plunge me into existential uncertainty?
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked my empty apartment. “A period? A period?”
I flopped back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling as my internal monologue spiraled into increasingly absurd interpretations.
Maybe it’s code. Maybe “.” means “Yes, I have many ladders, I’ll bring them all.” Or maybe it means “Stop texting me about ladders, you weirdo.” Maybe he’s using Morse code, and this is just the beginning of an elaborate message. Maybe his cat sat on his phone. Maybe “.” is what the cool kids say now instead of “k” and I’m just painfully out of touch.
Before I could concoct any more far-fetched theories, my phone buzzed again. Same contact.
Who is this? And what exactly makes your boss “bullheaded”?
My heart sank. I’d definitely misdialed. This wasn’t Mark. This was a stranger who was now justifiably confused about why someone was texting them about ladder emergencies and bullheaded bosses. My hands felt clammy as I considered the implications. I’d just sent a rambling, unprofessional text about my employer to a total stranger. A stranger who was now asking for details. What if they somehow knew Mrs. Wilson? What if word got back to her that her librarian was calling her names to random people?
I took a deep breath and typed out a reply, attempting to strike a balance between apologetic and not-sounding-like-a-potential-stalker:
“I am SO sorry! I’m a librarian at Willowbrook Library. I accidentally texted the wrong number! Please ignore that text completely! And FYI, my boss is absolutely wonderful and not at all bullheaded! Please ignore my ladder emergency. So sorry for bothering you! Have a nice day!”
