Page 6 of Just a Friend for the Lion
Yup. Scuffed. Dirty. Deliciously real.
So, beach dude energy, but make it blue-collar fantasy. If beach dudes wore boots and drove blacked-out luxury sedans with dark tint and probably questionable registration.
But it’s his eyes that really do it.
I mean, can you spell TROUBLE?
Because those eyes are not normal. They’re this ridiculous, impossible shade of gold—like molten sunlight poured into twin shot glasses—and they are currently scanning the room like he’s looking for something specific.
Or someone.
Be still my traitorous ovaries.
He’s not just hot. He’sstupidhot.
Like, ruin-your-credit-score, change-your-last-name, start-Googling-“How to become the perfect little wifey”-level hot.
It’s unfair. There should be laws.
And then it clicks. Because right after we make eye-contact and he does a full-on toe-stub stumble—yes, I saw it, yes, it was adorable, no, I’m not recovered—he straightens like nothing happened and makes a beeline for Uncle Uzzi’s table.
Oh.
Oh no.
It all makes sense now.
He’s not human.
That vibe? That pull in my belly?
That tingle that’s zipping down my spine like a soda fizz made of moonlight and lust?
Yeah. Not normal.
He’s something else.
Something powerful. Something Other.
Something mine?
NOPE. Shut it down, MJ. Abort. Delete. Smash the fantasy button.
That’s just wishful thinking.
Isn’t it?
Because if that guy belongs to anyone, it’s probably a tall, leggy forest nymph with a skincare routine blessed by the moon and a PhD in tantric yoga.
Not a pizza-slinging, sauce-stained Jersey girl who forgot to wax her upper lip this week.
Still, when his eyes meet mine—for the second time—my whole world tips sideways.
And I think I’m in trouble.
Big. Monster-sized. Trouble.
Great. Because that’s exactly what I need—more pheromone-fueled chaos in my carefully balanced, emotionally detached, hormone-suppressed life.
