2. MJ
MJ
A nother Friday afternoon.
Full house.
Hormones rising.
Cheese bubbling.
Welcome to my domain.
Then—bam!
Holy. Freaking. Hotness.
Everything gets thrust into a new orbit.
But let me back up a sec.
I’m doing what I do best, i.e. working the front at Pizza Girls with a spatula in one hand and a forced smile in the other, welcoming our regular Friday crowd.
You know the type—middle-aged contractors who think they’re still twenty-five, reeking of cologne and confidence, tossing sausage jokes like they’re on open mic night at a bad comedy club.
“You know, MJ,” Sal says, leaning a little too far over the counter like he owns stock in Axe Body Spray, “if you ever wanna handle a real set of meatballs?—”
“Sal,” I cut in with a sweet smile and zero mercy, “I’ve got all the meat I can handle, and mine doesn’t come with back hair and a foot fungus problem, not to mention a previous engagement with alimony and child support.”
The other guys lose it.
Poor Sal turns red and stares at his shoes, which, to be fair, are offensive on multiple levels.
I wink and gesture towards the corner booth.
“Now be good boys and seat yourselves before I start charging extra for the stand-up routine.”
They shuffle off, laughing and grumbling, and I go back to wiping the counter while their pizza cooks.
Crisis averted, ego bruised (his, not mine), and sanity maintained— for now.
This is the routine.
The song and dance.
The daily sausage symphony of my life.
And hey, I’m not knocking it .
I’ve got good friends, a great family, and a booming pizza business with recipes that’ll make you weep tears of stracciatella —seriously my Italian egg drop soup is banging.
As for love and happy-ever-afters? Nah.
That ship sailed after a string of underwhelming dates, a very regrettable situation involving a vegan mime, and— oh yeah —the realization that my sisters found literal fated mates through a magical dating app run by a centuries-old Witch.
Cool. Cool cool cool.
Magic is real? Fantastic.
The world is filled with supernatural creatures? Awesome.
My sisters are mated to two of them, and those guys think the sun rises and sets on them? Fucking wonderful.
I mean, I’m thrilled for them. Truly.
This isn’t even sour grapes.
Carina and Geraldine, Dina for short, are living their best magic-meets-happily-ever-after lives, but me?
I’m more realistic.
Someday, hopefully before I get much older, I’ll find a nice guy. We’ll date. Maybe get married. Or maybe I won’t, right ?
That’s okay. It’s fine.
Living single is a completely valid life choice. And if I’ve always dreamed of a white gown and birdseed (rice is bad for the critters) followed by the pitter patter of little feet a couple of years later— that’s okay .
Some dreams never come true.
I get it. And I’m fine with that.
I am completely okay with never feeling that special zing that tells me I've met the one whenever I meet a new guy.
Or I was okay with it.
Then he walks in.
I don’t even see him at first. But I feel him.
Like a shift in the atmosphere.
A subtle zap in the air that prickles across my skin.
I glance up and— Holy. Freaking. Hotness.
Six-foot-something of prime-grade male confidence, wrapped in a tight black tee that’s clinging to his chest like it owes him money.
His shoulders are broad enough to block the sun, and the way he moves? It’s got that casual, lazy swagger you only see in two places—runways and slow-motion action scenes where the hero walks away from an explosion without looking back .
His jeans are worn in all the right places, and there’s a very real chance they were custom-distressed by divine intervention because no one’s ass should look that good outside of a fantasy.
Golden-tanned skin, tousled dark hair that looks like he just rolled out of a beachside dream, and— wait . Work boots?
Yup. Scuffed. Dirty. Deliciously real.
So, beach dude energy, but make it blue-collar fantasy. If beach dudes wore boots and drove blacked-out luxury sedans with dark tint and probably questionable registration.
But it’s his eyes that really do it.
I mean, can you spell TROUBLE?
Because those eyes are not normal. They’re this ridiculous, impossible shade of gold— like molten sunlight poured into twin shot glasses —and they are currently scanning the room like he’s looking for something specific.
Or someone.
Be still my traitorous ovaries.
He’s not just hot. He’s stupid hot.
Like, ruin-your-credit-score, change-your-last-name, start-Googling-“How to become the perfect little wifey”-level hot.
It’s unfair. There should be laws .
And then it clicks. Because right after we make eye-contact and he does a full-on toe-stub stumble— yes, I saw it, yes, it was adorable, no, I’m not recovered —he straightens like nothing happened and makes a beeline for Uncle Uzzi’s table.
Oh.
Oh no.
It all makes sense now.
He’s not human.
That vibe? That pull in my belly?
That tingle that’s zipping down my spine like a soda fizz made of moonlight and lust?
Yeah. Not normal.
He’s something else.
Something powerful. Something Other.
Something mine?
NOPE. Shut it down, MJ. Abort. Delete. Smash the fantasy button.
That’s just wishful thinking.
Isn’t it?
Because if that guy belongs to anyone, it’s probably a tall, leggy forest nymph with a skincare routine blessed by the moon and a PhD in tantric yoga.
Not a pizza-slinging, sauce-stained Jersey girl who forgot to wax her upper lip this week .
Still, when his eyes meet mine—for the second time—my whole world tips sideways.
And I think I’m in trouble.
Big. Monster-sized. Trouble.
Great. Because that’s exactly what I need—more pheromone-fueled chaos in my carefully balanced, emotionally detached, hormone-suppressed life.
He walks in like he owns the place, sniffs the air like he’s on a Food Network pilgrimage, and then—oh Goddess—he trips again.
That’s twice now.
This time is like, full-on, toe-catches-on-the-tile, arms-flailing stumble.
I blink.
Did that just happen?
Is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen a klutz ?
I am not equipped for this.
“Don’t worry,” I call, trying to sound chill while my ovaries are plotting a hostile takeover. “We only charge extra if you fall into the pizza.”
He straightens, smooths a hand down his chest like he’s resetting the cool, and flashes a sheepish smile.
“Guess I was distracted by the scent.”
Oh, honey. If you’re distracted, imagine what I’m going through over here .
Then, as if summoned by Fate (or Witchcraft), I hear a familiar voice from the corner booth.
“MJ, darling, can we have a meat lovers’ pie? Well done I should think,” he says.
I glance over and spot the white-haired wizard himself— Uncle Uzzi.
The supernatural world’s answer to Cupid if Cupid were a matchmaking Witch with a flair for velvet capes and unsolicited life advice.
The new guy turns and heads that way like his heels are on fire.
And suddenly, I get the feeling I’ve just become part of something bigger than a little casual flirting at the pizza place.
Something fated.
Something magical.
Something completely out of my damn control.
And I can’t lie—I’m a little intrigued.
Also, if he orders extra sausage, I’m going to combust.