Page 12 of Just a Friend for the Lion
Uncle Uzzi, the ancient little gremlin, just sipped his soda and watched me suffer like it was a goddamn romcom he’d seen a dozen times and loved every minute of.
Seven slices later—yes, seven—I realized I had to get the hell out of there before I did something stupid.
Like ask her out.
Or offer to lick pizza sauce off her collarbone.
“Your phone is buzzing, dear boy,” Uzzi said, just as I was wiping my mouth with a napkin. “The algorithm is working its magic.”
“Um. I’ll check it out later,” I muttered, already half out of my seat. “Gotta run.”
“So soon?” he asked, his face a perfect blend of innocence and smugness.
“Yeah,” I said, standing up and adjusting my jeans like they were made of hot lava.
“Carter, you don’t need to be afraid?—”
“Who’s afraid? Look, Uncle Uzzi, I got cars to polish. A schedule to build. And just zero time for fate.”
Uzzi just smiled.
“Of course, Carter. No time at all. Unless of course fate finds you first. Then again, you’re just looking for a friend, remember?”
“Exactly,” I muttered, followed by something vaguely polite.
Then, I turned on my heel and walked straight into a stack of napkin dispensers.
Smooth.
Damn Fates.
Damn Witches.
And damn that pizza girl with the caramel eyes and the hips that could start wars.
But as I left the restaurant, I tossed a last glance over my shoulder, and it landed right back on her.
Pizza Girl.
MJ.
That’s what Uncle Uzzi called her. And for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t so sure I meant a damn word I said before about not being interested in a mate, about wanting just a friend.
Reality check? Yes, please. I’m definitely in need of one.
Add that to a cold shower, a long drive, and a serious sit down with my cock—it had nobusiness getting hard over a little normal—and maybe I’d feel like myself again.
Oh, and I definitely needed to delete that app.
Right after I checked the notifications.
Chapter 4
MJ
It’s almost five when Jeremy, the guy we hired to help on weekends, finally rolls in, tossing his hoodie on the hook by the back office like he owns the place.
“Yo, MJ,” he calls, already popping his knuckles. “You want me on reheats or cash?”
