23. Carter
Carter
F inally, someone unlocks the front door to Pizza Girls from inside.
I exhale hard and push through the front door, bells jingling like this is some quaint romcom and not a war zone waiting to happen.
Inside, the ovens are hot, the counter’s clean, and the smell of marinara makes my stomach growl.
The only thing standing between me and forgiveness?
Her sisters’ mates both with matching scowls and blood in their eyes.
“Doug. Horace,” I nod tightly.
Doug crosses his arms.
“Carter.”
Horace doesn't even speak .
He just stares.
Real slow. Real deliberate. Just like the fucking Bear he is.
Like he’s calculating the odds of ripping out my throat and getting away with it before someone calls the cops.
“Look,” I start, because I came here to grovel, not fight. “I know MJ’s mad. I know I messed up. But I need to talk to her.”
Doug raises a brow. “You mean before or after you went back to your Pride to—what was it— service some needy Lionesses in heat?”
I grit my teeth. “That’s not what happened.”
“That’s what she thinks,” Horace growls. “And that’s what matters.”
“I told my mother to stop putting my name in that damn lottery! I was only home to get some of my stuff before she threw it away. I didn’t touch anyone! I wouldn’t do that! Hell, I haven’t even looked at anyone else since I met MJ.”
Doug steps forward.
“Then maybe you should’ve told MJ that.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I snap. “I came here to tell her, but?—"
“What? You expected her to be waiting? After you mated her and vanished?” Horace’s voice is pure fury.
“I didn’t vanish. The Pride is a lot, and I?—”
“You what, Carter?” Doug cuts in. “You gonna say the word Lion like it explains everything? You think you’re the only one with instincts?”
I step forward, growling low in my chest.
“I’m trying, dammit. I’m here. Isn’t that enough?”
Horace just walks up and bonks me on the nose.
With his knuckle.
Hard.
The fuck?
“Ow, you dick?—”
“That’s for biting my sister,” he says, cool as ice. “Without asking.”
I’m about to growl something deeply unhelpful and possibly felonious when— SPLAT.
Warm. Wet. And very saucy.
I blink.
There’s tomato sauce dripping down my face. I wipe my eyes. Doug is sputtering.
Horace just stands there blinking like he’s been baptized in crushed tomatoes.
“What the—” Doug shouts.
We all spin around .
And there he is.
In the back doorway.
Wearing a velvet smoking jacket the color of the first snowfall, holding a steel bucket that drips tomato sauce like blood.
Uncle Uzzi.
White hair glowing like he stuck his finger in an outlet. Grin smug enough to sell snake oil to a room full of lawyers.
“Well,” he says, voice booming and cheerful. “That was satisfying. You three certainly needed to be cooled off.”
I glare, sauce dripping down my temple. “That was hot tomato sauce, old man!”
“Exactly,” he replies, stroking his ridiculous little goatee. “From Carina’s special simmering pot. Excellent flavor profile. You’re welcome.”
Doug wipes at his ear, grumbling. “You can’t just assault people with marinara.”
“Oh, please.” Uzzi waves his free hand. “If I had a dollar for every supernatural tantrum I’ve hosed down with red sauce, I’d own my own private island by now. And probably still be lonely because no one would visit. Too messy.”
Horace sighs long and deep, like a man reconsidering his life choices. “We just cleaned these floors last night.”
“Then you already know where the mop is!” Uzzi singsongs, snapping his fingers.
They shuffle into the back, and I follow. The three of us trail sauce and shame like three scolded cubs sent to detention.
Doug mutters something about abuse of magical powers going against the spirit of this intervention —I didn’t know I needed one but okay. I’ll take whatever help I can get.
Horace mutters something about his shirt being a casualty of love .
I mutter something about murdering this bunch of supernatural dipshits.
We grab mops and rags, scrubbing silently, the tang of garlic and shame heavy in the air.
Uzzi, of course, just lounges against the counter, not lifting a damn finger. His velvet sleeve gleams under the kitchen light, like he’s the king of Not My Problem Island .
Finally, after what feels like forever, he clears his throat.
“You want a solution yet, you big pussy?”
I slam the mop into the bucket. “Yes. Preferably one that doesn’t involve scalding sauce.”
Doug grunts. “Or garlic knots as weapons. ”
“Garlic knots are still on the table,” Uzzi says lightly, eyes twinkling. “But no, no, I mean a real solution.”
He leans in, dramatic as always, like he’s about to reveal the next great prophecy.
“You’ll help me set up another Date to Mate event. A redo. But this time? Private. Intimate. Catered. Exclusively for those who require a second chance .”
Horace groans. “You mean people you already screwed up matching once?”
“Semantics,” Uzzi says, winking.
“And where exactly are we supposed to host this?” I mutter, already regretting opening my mouth.
Uzzi grins wider, producing a towel from seemingly nowhere, and tosses it at me. “Why, at your garage, dear boy.”
“My what?”
“Your shiny, oversized garage. Big enough for cars, big enough for tables. Perfect for romance, don’t you think?”
Doug snorts. “Nothing says happily-ever-after like transmission oil and leather seats.”
Uzzi ignores him, eyes locked on me. “You owe the girl a grand gesture, Carter Leone. So let’s clean up this mess— literally —and build her one.”
I stare down at my mop, my reflection warped in tomato sauce, and for the first time in days hope flickers.
Because maybe— just maybe —the magical matchmaking Witch is right.