Chapter 4
Eb
Marigold Santos.
That’s her name.
The woman the Date to Mate app claims is my fated match.
I’ve seen her picture—because of course the app shoved it right into my inbox the second the magical contract sealed itself—and, well, she’s beautiful.
Soft, bountiful curves.
Warm olive skin.
Curls that frame her face like she’s in a damn holiday commercial for homemade cocoa.
And her eyes—fuck me.
Her eyes are the exact color of tupelo honey when the sun hits it just right.
But she can’t be mine.
No. Absolutely not.
The app says she’s human—or mostly human. Some kind of magic-tuned empathic type with latent gifts.
Whatever the hell that means.
Me? I’m a Honey Badger Shifter.
We don’t do soft and sparkly.
We do efficiency.
Precision.
Discipline.
And apparently, thanks to my fathead of a brother, mandatory magical matchmaking.
I’ve tried calling Date to Mate’s help line.
Four times.
Each time, I get the same chirpy, prerecorded message.
“Trust the process!”
Trust the process?
Trust. The. Fucking. Process.
If I ever find the person who recorded that, I’ll show them a process.
Then there’s the contract—and again, my idiot brother, Bobby, was right.
It’s magically binding.
And if I break it, my company will be charged a “soul tax.”
A literal one.
So yeah, I’m screwed.
Which is how I find myself standing outside The Cookie Hive at five o’clock sharp on a Wednesday evening—staring at a pastel-painted door that smells like cinnamon sugar and kisses—trying to convince myself this is all some cosmic joke.
The window’s fogged from the ovens, but I can see people inside.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Holding hands.
I growl under my breath.
“People in love suck. Especially when you’re not one of them,” I mumble aloud.
A woman with a Santa hat passing by gives me a wide berth.
Good. She should.
I look like a Wall Street hitman about to evict Santa’s elves.
The bell above the door jingles when I push it open.
Instantly, warmth hits me—sweet, buttery warmth that makes my Badger perk up like someone just cracked open a jar of golden honey.
I sniff.
Then I growl.
Mine.
“No, she’s not,” I hiss quietly to my inner beast.
But he’s already pacing, claws clicking, the scent of sugar and female satisfaction winding through my blood like wildfire.
And then I see her.
Marigold.
Flour on her cheek.
A green apron tied around that ridiculously perfect waist.
It’s not tiny. Not small.
No, Marigold is curvy and thick.
Fucking gorgeous.
My fingers itch to touch her, and I quickly clench them into fists to stop myself from reaching for her.
What the fuck am I doing?
I’m not here to grope the poor woman, for fuck’s sake.
Why not? Could be fun?
Shut the fuck up, I think to myself.
She’s laughing at something her friend says, her curls bouncing with every movement, and when she glances up and our eyes meet—something inside me clicks.
Every thought I had about rejecting this, about calling the lawyers, about staying detached—bam!
Gone.
My chest tightens.
My pulse stutters.
My Badger roars.
MINE.
She freezes mid-step, blinking at me like she can feel it too, and for a full heartbeat, the entire world goes silent.
Then she blurts out, voice bright and incredulous, “It’s you!”
And before I can even form words, my brain’s a mess of holy shit and don’t scare her to grab her and never let go.
I clear my throat, stepping closer, forcing my voice to stay low and even.
“You must be Marigold Santos.”
Her lips curve into a slow, wary smile.
“And you must be Ebenezer Rogers.”
“Eb,” I say quickly. “Just Eb.”
She laughs softly, the sound like warm caramel melting over my skin, and my Badger damn near rolls over in bliss.
“So you’re the guy Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate app matched me with,” she says, one eyebrow lifting.
“Apparently,” I reply. “Though I still suspect foul play. Possibly blackmail.”
“Oh, you think you’re the victim here?” she teases. “Try waking up to an app telling you your soulmate’s a grumpy investment mogul named after Scrooge.”
I open my mouth—then close it again, caught between offense and fascination.
“Touché,” I finally manage.
She chuckles, shaking her head.
“You know what, Mr. Rogers? You look like you could use a cookie.”
“I don’t eat sugar,” I grumble automatically.
Her grin widens, wicked and sweet.
“You will.”
And just like that, I’m lost.
Because this woman?
This maddening, radiant, infuriating baker?
She’s not just trouble.
She’s the kind of trouble I’ve been starving for my entire life.