7. Carter
Carter
O ne Week Later
The ping came the day after I downloaded the damn app.
One bright little chime, followed by a swirl of sparkles and a message that read:
Date to Mate App
The algorithm has spoken. A match has been made. Are you ready to meet your fate?
I stared at it for all of two seconds.
Then I locked my phone, tossed it face-down on the workbench, and went back to detailing the stretch Escalade.
Because no .
Fuck no.
I am not ready.
I was never ready.
I didn’t even want the app in the first place.
I only downloaded it to shut Uncle Uzzi up and prove that just because I could, didn’t mean I would.
Besides, even without looking, I knew exactly who the match was.
How many curly-haired pizza goddesses could one neighborhood hold?
So yeah, I ignored it.
For a week.
I busied myself with fleet check-ins, new hire interviews, route maps, and polishing every surface inside Lion Limousines & Livery Service until my knuckles ached.
But the craving started anyway.
First, it was just a whisper.
The idea of pizza.
Then it was a hunger.
A full-bodied, claws-out need.
And I told myself it was normal. It’s pizza.
Pizza is universal.
It’s practically a food group in Jersey.
It had nothing to do with warm brown eyes or teasing smirks or the way MJ’s hips swayed like she was born to ruin men.
Then came Thursday.
“Yo, boss,” Tony, a thick-necked Gorilla Shifter said, leaning in my office door, “We were thinking we should start a pizza night. Like every Thursday. You know, team-building. Tradition. Fuel. Garlic knots. And Pizza Girls has the best!”
My inner Lion perked up.
A few of the other drivers behind him nodded like this was a sacred rite.
I didn’t argue. Couldn’t. They were right.
Pizza made people happy.
And me? I was the picture of chill.
Totally unaffected.
“It’s smart,” I said, grabbing my phone. “We’ll set up an account. Pre-order. I’ll pick it up.”
“Thanks, boss! And, uh, we’re gonna get it from Pizza Girls, right? Freakin’ hot as fuck women in that joint! I mean ah-mazing!”
I growled.
His eyebrows raised.
I shook it off. Shrugged. Played it cool.
I had no business getting jealous.
Besides, my girl wasn’t the only one who worked there.
My girl? What the fuck?
She wasn’t my girl. Wouldn’t be. Nuh uh.
It was just pizza.
It wasn’t the warm scent of oregano and slow-cooked tomatoes that lingered in my dreams.
It wasn’t the voice that lived rent-free in my head saying “my pleasure” like it meant way more than customer service.
And it definitely wasn’t because my Date to Mate app was still flashing a glowing match notification in the top corner of my screen like some kind of magical alarm system.
Nope.
This is just pizza.
Just Thursday.
Just a coincidence that I happened to be walking into her place again.
And I could do that. I could be a normal guy just picking up pizza.
Right?