Page 72 of Just a Friend for the Lion
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 cleanedthese 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 ofmagical 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 acasualty 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 ofNot 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 asecond 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.”
