3. Carter
Carter
I slide into the booth across from Uncle Uzzi, still trying to shake off the weird electric zing from locking eyes with the curvy goddess behind the counter.
She had flour on her apron, tomato sauce on her wrist, and danger written all over her hips.
Inappropriate.
Irresistible.
Human.
And definitely off-limits.
“I see you’ve noticed the local cuisine,” Uncle Uzzi says with a smirk, reaching for a garlic knot like he didn’t just throw me into emotional traffic.
I clear my throat.
“I noticed the pizza, thank you very much. ”
He hums.
“Mmm. Yes. Saucy. Spicy. Impossible to resist. Just like?—”
“Don’t say it.”
He winks, then tosses the garlic knot in his mouth like he’s not about to ruin my entire week.
“So, my boy. Tell me about the business. Lion Limousines & Livery , was it? Sounds strong. Sexy. Alliterative.”
“It’s going great,” I say. “Paperwork’s filed. Garage is set up. Cars are detailed. First soft launch ride is next weekend. And don’t think I don’t know why you really called me here.”
He presses a hand to his heart, blue eyes hurt and yet completely guileless, like I just accused him of murder.
“Carter, I would never?—”
“I’m not looking for a mate,” I cut him off, dead serious. “Not now. Not ever. Not interested in fate, bonds, glowy marks, or mating bites. You hear me?”
Uncle Uzzi sighs dramatically, folding his napkin like he’s preparing for war.
“Of course you’re not, you big pussy . Why would I ever suggest something so serious to such a fraidy-cat?”
“What?! ”
He gives me a knowing look over the rim of his water glass.
“You’re clearly terrified of commitment, Carter. Commitment, and curves. And happiness!”
“I am not terrified of—wait, curves? Why would anyone be?—”
He waves me off.
“Forget I said anything. Anyway, I wasn’t going to recommend a mate. Not to you. No, no, no. But a friend? Perhaps someone to chat with? Share a meme? Exchange a few words that don’t involve engine fluid and radio static?”
I narrow my eyes.
The truth is, I miss my old pals at Falcon Limousine. People I worked with for years.
New city. All alone.
He isn’t wrong. I could use a friend. But that’s it.
Just a friend. Nothing more.
Still—I bite.
“This sounds like a trap.”
He shrugs.
“You can try Date to Mate with zero obligation to meet anyone in person. Unless of course you’re scared of a little phone app. Which—perfectly valid. Some Lions just prefer to stay in their cozy caves and lick their own wounds.”
“You did not just throw down the gauntlet like that, Uncle Uzzi.”
The nerve of this guy! He knew just where to hit, too.
My inner kitty growled. And yeah, I should have known better, but what can I say?
I’m sitting there, and Uncle Uzzi is grinning, full of mischief and ancient matchmaking glee.
He leans forward. “Oh, but I did, dear boy. What I want to know is what are you going to do about it?”
I know better.
I know better than this.
But damn it if the old Witch hadn’t thrown down the gauntlet in the most aggravating, manipulative, loving way possible.
Which meant I had no choice.
I had to log in. Here. Now.
Just once.
Just to shut him up.
Just to prove him wrong.
And maybe— possibly, perhaps —if I got lucky, I’d find someone nice and supple to take my mind off of inappropriate pizza owners with laugh lines, full hips, and the voice of a siren dipped in garlic butter.
Not that I was thinking about her.
Nope. Not at all .
Shut up. Idiot.
“Just fill it out, dear boy. It’s simple. Just takes a leap of faith, and a little nerve.”
Uncle Uzzi slid his phone across the table like it was some kind of sacred relic, the glowing gold Date to Mate logo pulsing gently like it was alive and ready to ruin my life.
“I’m not using your phone,” I grumbled, fishing mine out of my back pocket. “You probably have it rigged to start wedding bells the second I open the damn app.”
He gasped like I’d slapped him with a breadstick.
“Carter Leone! I would never manipulate a magical interface. That’s illegal. And very difficult. Even for me.”
I gave him a look.
“Okay, mostly difficult.”
I huffed and opened my own cell phone, thank you very much , then I searched the app store.
Sure enough, Date to Mate popped up first.
Five stars.
Thousands of glowing reviews.
One literally said “I met my mate and got a baby and a sourdough starter within a week!”
Exactly what I didn’t need in my life.
Still, I downloaded it anyway .
Just to look.
The app opened with a soft chime, and to my surprise, the whole thing looked normal.
Like sleek, modern, non-threatening normal. A simple interface.
Big buttons.
Clear directions.
No flashing hearts. No singing cupids. No video of Uncle Uzzi in a sparkly robe.
The home screen read:
“Welcome to Date to Mate. Ready to find your fate?”
Below that, I saw two buttons. Yes and Not Yet .
I jabbed Not Yet .
And the app— get this —respected my choice.
Huh. Color me surprised.
“See?” Uzzi sipped his water smugly. “No cursed runes. No mating horn. Just you, the app, and maybe your destiny if you’re not a coward.”
“I’m not a coward,” I muttered, already filling in my basic info.
Name. Species. Age. Preferred species for matches. (I skipped ‘No Preference’ and checked Human, Shifter, and Witch, with a small shrug.)
Then came the questions .
Favorite smell? Cinnamon, leather, motor oil, ocean, pizza.
Pizza, obviously.
Greatest fear?
I typed carefully: Falling for someone who makes me want to stay.
That one made my chest tight.
So I erased it and typed: Airplane bathrooms.
The app didn’t judge. It just kept going.
Simple. Fast. Weirdly calming.
By the time I finished, I had a faint buzz under my skin. Like something was clicking into place.
“Are you done?” Uzzi asked, too innocent.
“Yeah. I filled it out. Don’t start planning the wedding.”
He cackled like an ancient trickster god. “No weddings. Not yet. But the algorithm is already weaving, Carter. The threads of fate are being spun. The cards are?—”
“Okay, enough Tarot talk,” I said, shoving the phone into my pocket like it might explode. “We eatin’ or what?”
“Of course. Ah, here it comes!” Uncle Uzzi said with a knowing grin that made my hackles rise.
Boy, could you say that again.
She came around the counter like a vision conjured from some late-night fantasy— the kind you wake up from with sweaty sheets and shame.
Sneakers on feet too tiny to belong on an adult woman.
Tight jeans that showed off every inch of her thick thighs, wide hips, and even thicker ass.
A Pizza Girls tee that clung to her ripe breasts like second skin and rode up just enough to flash a sliver of smooth, soft, pale flesh above her waistband.
And that hair? A riot of curls cascaded down to her shoulders from a high ponytail that bounced with every step she took.
Like even her follicles had confidence.
In her hands? A steaming pizza pie that smelled like heaven, lust, and carb-based salvation.
“Here you go, gentlemen,” she said, setting it down on the table with a smile that made my knees damn near buckle.
Her voice was sweet, a little raspy. Sultry in that she doesn’t even know she’s sexy kind of way.
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
Then she bit her lip.
Bit. Her. Lip.
And gave me a once-over like she was checking a prize bull for stud service .
I swallowed hard.
My throat? Desert dry.
“Thank you, MJ,” Uncle Uzzi said, way too casual for the nuclear reaction happening in my pants. “This looks fantastic.”
“My pleasure,” she purred.
Oh, come on.
Did she have to say that word?
Heat shot down my spine, and I shifted in my seat, suddenly very aware of the snug fit of my jeans and the traitorous interest of a certain body part that had no business rising to the occasion.
Focus, Carter.
But that was a joke. Because how the hell was I supposed to focus when she kept glancing our way from behind the counter, laughing with other customers, flipping her curls like some goddess of mozzarella and murder?
Seriously, she was trying to kill me with all that carrying on.
Every time she moved, it was like my brain short-circuited.
Every bounce of her hip, every flash of her dimple—it chipped away at my resolve.
I tried to talk .
Failed.
Tried to compliment the pizza.
Made a noise that could only be described as a dying moose.
Uncle Uzzi, the ancient little gremlin, just sipped his soda and watched me suffer like it was a goddamn romcom he’d seen a dozen times and loved every minute of.
Seven slices later— yes, seven —I realized I had to get the hell out of there before I did something stupid.
Like ask her out.
Or offer to lick pizza sauce off her collarbone.
“Your phone is buzzing, dear boy,” Uzzi said, just as I was wiping my mouth with a napkin. “The algorithm is working its magic.”
“Um. I’ll check it out later,” I muttered, already half out of my seat. “Gotta run.”
“So soon?” he asked, his face a perfect blend of innocence and smugness.
“Yeah,” I said, standing up and adjusting my jeans like they were made of hot lava.
“Carter, you don’t need to be afraid?—”
“Who’s afraid? Look, Uncle Uzzi, I got cars to polish. A schedule to build. And just zero time for fate. ”
Uzzi just smiled.
“Of course, Carter. No time at all. Unless of course fate finds you first. Then again, you’re just looking for a friend, remember?”
“Exactly,” I muttered, followed by something vaguely polite.
Then, I turned on my heel and walked straight into a stack of napkin dispensers.
Smooth.
Damn Fates.
Damn Witches.
And damn that pizza girl with the caramel eyes and the hips that could start wars.
But as I left the restaurant, I tossed a last glance over my shoulder, and it landed right back on her.
Pizza Girl.
MJ .
That’s what Uncle Uzzi called her. And for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t so sure I meant a damn word I said before about not being interested in a mate, about wanting just a friend.
Reality check? Yes, please. I’m definitely in need of one.
Add that to a cold shower, a long drive, and a serious sit down with my cock— it had no business getting hard over a little normal —and maybe I’d feel like myself again.
Oh, and I definitely needed to delete that app.
Right after I checked the notifications.