Page 3 of Just a Friend for the Lion
Just clean lines, custom leather seats, and miles of possibility. That’s always been enough for me.
Because my kind—Big Cats, especially Lions—we don’t do well with confinement.
Physically or emotionally.
Put us in a box, and we’ll bust out claws first. I need space to breathe. To move. To think. But that doesn’t always translate the way you think it will.
My Lion doesn’t crave prairies or mountains.
Nah.And for the first time in a long while, I have a clear direction.
So, I built something away from my old employer and the folks I used to work with.
Something of my own. And I did it in a city.
Right? I was shocked too.
But Newark feels like the right kind of jungle.
The kind I can rule on my own terms.
No Pride politics. No pressure to settle down or mate up. Just business.
Or at least, that was the plan, but of course, nothing is ever easy. Greasing the wheels, getting started, that's taken weeks, months even.
But I'm there now. Got a team of excellent, skilled drivers. A new dispatch system that runs on the best tech money and magic can buy.
We do everything from driving local to cross-country. Already have a few dozen steady business accounts, and I’m determined to see that grow.
I just checked our site, and it looks like we have a whole slew of rave reviews from our first couple of dozen clients.
How awesome is that?
So, when Uncle Uzzi—yes, that Uncle Uzzi, the infamous matchmaking Witch and longtime client of my old boss Hank Garrett—invited me to lunch just a few blocks from my new garage, I figured, why not?
Yeah, I know what he’s about. He thinks he’s slick with that sparkly “Date to Mate” app of his, pairing up Shifters like it’s eHarmony with a little extra wand-waving.
But this Lion isn’t looking for forever.
A meat lover’s pie and a cold Coke? Sure.
A commitment that’s likely to cut my balls off metaphorically speaking? Pass.
But still, I head over, fully intending to shoot the breeze and avoid any magical meddling.
What I don’t expect? The second I walk into Pizza Girls, I get hit with a scent so rich and tantalizing it nearly brings me to my knees.
Garlic, fresh basil, charred crust, melted cheese—pure magic.
But it’s not the food that steals the show.
It’s her.
The curvy, curly-haired goddess behind the counter is laughing with a group of customers like they all showed up just to bask in her glow.
Her cheeks are pink from the heat of the ovens, her apron’s dusted with flour, and she looks like every sinful thought I’ve ever had rolled into one dangerously beautiful package.
And just like that, I forget every damn word of my mental prep speech.
