Page 1 of Good Luck Charm for the Wolf

Prologue-Uncle Uzzi

Greetings, my dearest darlings!

You know I love to celebrate just about everything—full moons, new moons, Tuesday discounts at the potion shop—but this one is extra special!

It’s official!

We’re throwing an informal grand opening pizza party for the Date to Mate app at none other than Pizza Girls, the finest purveyor of garlic knots this side of the Veil!

Why a pizza party, you ask?

Because it was the only form of payment Horace Vanderbilt—our very own happily mated Bear Shifter and tech wizard extraordinaire—would accept in exchange for helping code my beloved matchmaking app into existence.

Honestly, the Bear runs on marinara and joy. And considering Date to Mate matched him with his fated mate (one of the owners of Pizza Girls), it felt like the perfect tribute.

Now, yes, yes, yes, I know the app is technically for supernaturals—Wolves, Witches, Dragons, Dhampirs, and the like—but don’t let that stop you!

Love is delightfully unruly, and several of you charming normals found your mates during the beta phase. (You’re welcome, by the way.)

I’m so proud of what we’ve built together. My Liebling, my sweet soul flame, she always believed in love—wild, magical, imperfect love—and I know she’s watching, probably sipping spirit wine and gossiping with Cupid as we speak.

So, my magical misfits, bring your appetite, and maybe a love offering or two—flowers or fried calamari, whatever works.

Pizza Girls is serving up slices with extra destiny and a sprinkle of Pecorino Romano.

But you don’t have to wait for the party to get your Date to Mate profile set up!

Log in, enchant your profile, upload your best spell-safe selfie, and get ready to meet the one the Fates picked just for you.

And if you think you’ve already met them, but the stars didn’t quite align? Don’t worry. The Fates are patient, and a little pushy.

See you under the twinkling lights, my loves.

Yours truly,

Uncle Uzzi

Chapter 1

Doug

“You have got to be shitting me.”

But no, alas, the steaming pile of actual dog shit at my feet is very, very real.

Average, human, mundane dog shit. And here I am, squatting next to it like a deranged dog whisperer, as I wait for my latest cheating bastard of a target to make his move.

Fuck. My. Life.

I know better than to take cheating spouse gigs. They’re always messy, always depressing, and always smell like disappointment and cheap perfume. But what can I say?

Daddy’s got bills.

Ugh. Note to self: Never refer to yourself as “Daddy” again, you creepy tool.

Anyway, the guy I’m tailing?

A painfully average human. Guy is rocking his dad bod, thinning hairline, but he might overdose on that complex he’s got.

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