Page 17 of Mine Again (Mafia Bride #2)

Chapter Sixteen

Isabella

T he next morning, I can’t wait to see if more messages have landed in my inbox.

I roll over in bed, tug the laptop onto my lap, and log into my account.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

My eyebrows rise. I blink.

Two hundred and three new messages.

Wait. Is that… right?

I stare at the number like it might shrink if I squint hard enough.

Two hundred and three.

Geez, is that normal?

I mean, I expected some interest. But this feels like I accidentally advertised myself as a free yacht giveaway.

A flicker of hope stirs in my stomach, cutting through the skepticism.

Surely, somewhere in that digital avalanche, there are at least a few decent options. There has to be.

My heart lifts as I click on the first message, anticipation fizzing low in my belly.

From: FlexxOnU94 Yo. Alpha here. 3 gym sessions a day, 6-pack year-round. You into protein pancakes? I make ‘em shirtless.

I blink.

What… the actual…?

Do women actually fall for this? Is there a demographic I missed? Are shirtless protein pancake chefs the pinnacle of romance?

I check his photos, just in case.

Oh wow. Yep, abs for days. Unfortunately, not a single brain cell in sight.

Next.

From: SpartanBeast77 We should train together. I could spot you anytime. Or just watch. Up to you.

Watch me?

Watch me do what, exactly? Shuffle cards seductively under a lemon tree?

Creep.

From: MammaBoyz23 Hey beautiful. My family is very close-knit. You’d love them. Like, we do everything together. No secrets. Sometimes we even share… stuff.

I’m going to be sick. Actually nauseous. The kind that starts behind your eyes and trickles down your spine.

And this is only message three?

I groan. Out loud. How many more of these horror shows am I going to read?

Still, I press on like a disaster tourist.

From: TonyTwoTimes I run my own car detailing business, lift five days a week, and I tell it like it is. You look like someone who can handle a man. Let’s skip the games.

Handle a man? What am I, a forklift?

I scroll.

And scroll.

And scroll.

The messages blur into one testosterone-drenched pickup line after another.

Each more unhinged than the last.

From: CryptoLeo I’m into girls with trust issues. Keeps things interesting. I like a challenge. Also, I’m an alpha but like… emotionally literate. Hit me up. Even for a threesome.

Is that supposed to be romantic?

From: MeatSweats420 Love language? Grunting and grilled meat. Wanna arm wrestle and make out after ?

That’s it.

Laptop closed. Sanity preservation mode activated.

I flop back onto the bed, groaning at the ceiling.

So this is modern dating? Perhaps an arranged marriage isn’t so bad after all.

Seriously, forget red flags. This is an entire airshow of crimson warning signs parachuting onto my face.

Andrea from last night is starting to look like a glitch in the matrix. A unicorn in a bullfighting ring.

Before I can second-guess myself, I reopen the laptop. My fingers move with purpose. I scroll up to find his message. It’s easy; it’s the first. Still waiting politely, like the one guy at a party not trying to impress anyone.

I read it again.

Still charming. Still funny. Still normal.

I click his profile.

The photo loads.

Oh, he’s cute.

Not intimidatingly hot. Not Luca or Sebastian levels of “cover-model with brooding smolder straight from a cologne ad”, just… normal. Handsome in a quiet way.

His smile is real. Not the kind that looks like it was rehearsed between sessions at the gym.

And he’s sitting in front of his computer. Maybe crypto ruined his sleep schedule too.

No shirtless gym selfies. No filtered mirror shots. No captions shouting things like “Hustle. Dominate. Grind.”

I scroll through the rest of his profile.

Andrea, 28. Corporate accountant. Occasionally funny, always punctual. Owns three decks of cards and an embarrassing number of coffee mugs. Weekends are for hiking, catching up on documentaries, and losing to my nieces at Uno. Looking for someone who enjoys wit, honesty, and carbs.

A small, involuntary smile tugs at my lips.

Corporate accountant.

Steady. Predictable. He probably files his taxes on time and has a favorite Excel function.

And for the first time ever, that sounds amazing.

There’s comfort in the idea of someone who won’t disappear into the night or leave chaos in his wake.

Maybe that’s what I want. Not sparks or smolder. But… safety. Predictability.

I picture a Saturday morning. Messy hair, coffee mugs, and an Uno rematch.

It sounds like peace.

To: CardCounter42 Hi Andrea, Thanks for your message.

Honestly, after reading some of the others I’ve received, you’re either a clever catfish or my only reason for not deleting this app…

or both. If your blackjack offer still stands, I might take you up on it.

Hope you’ll overcome your texting anxiety and write back. Isa

My fingers hover over the send button, hesitating.

Not because I don’t want to message him, but because part of me doesn’t trust good things to last. And I want something that lasts. Someone who sticks around… forever.

But if I don’t put myself out there, I’ll never find it.

So here goes nothing.

Send .

And just like that, something shifts inside me.

Suddenly, I’m a little less jaded, and a little more hopeful.

Andrea could be a maybe in a sea of nos.