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Chapter 12

Horace

E verything is going wrong.

First, I’m late getting to the restaurant.

I hate that.

I am never late.

Something about my high-tech, easily bored, hyper-focused brain makes me despise tardiness in any way, shape, or form.

It irritates me. Makes my skin crawl.

And yet—here I am.

Two minutes late for being five minutes early, which is precisely when I planned to arrive.

I know what I’m like, but sorry not sorry that is just how I am.

And this? This is a travesty. An absolute nightmare .

And then? Oh, then—it gets worse .

The restaurant has valet parking.

I fucking hate valet parking.

Every single time, the workers mess with my seat, and I get it. I do.

I’m a big guy. Not many people can reach the damn pedals when my seat is pushed back as far as it goes.

But that doesn’t mean I want to spend three minutes post-date wrestling my own car settings back into place while mentally composing a strongly worded complaint to whoever decided valet parking was necessary in the first place.

So instead of dealing with that headache, I slap a crisp hundred-dollar bill into the valet’s hand and say, “Hey, how about you let me park my own car? Right there. Where I can get it. Nice and quick.”

Because, let’s be honest, this date ?

It’s going to go south.

I can already feel it.

It’s inevitable.

They all go south . And that is not a euphemism for getting in anyone’s pants.

I mean south as in going to hell in a handbasket .

Blind dates are not fun.

Nope. Not at all.

My nerves have my palms sweating, and I wipe them on my black slacks before heading inside.

It’s early March, so you’d think the weather would give us a break. A little mercy, a touch of warmth— something .

But no.

It’s a crisp thirty-eight degrees, and the sun is already dipping, which means it’s only going to get colder. Because, of course, it is.

By the end of the month, we might hit the mid-sixties, but this is March. This is chaos weather. Anything could happen.

Kind of like this date.

I glance at my watch. One minute till go-time.

I don’t want to show up flustered or looking like I’ve been wrestling demons in the parking lot.

Sure, my heart might not be in this, but that’s no excuse for bad manners.

And what would Uncle Uzzi say if my date told him I arrived looking like a sweaty, distracted, unkempt mess?

I hate to disappoint the old Witch.

Ironically, the ancient spell-caster behind the matchmaking app has turned out to be one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met.

We’ve had several phone calls since I started working on the app, and every time, he’s dropped some new mind-bending revelation about the multiverse, fate, and soul connections.

And I have to admit—his theories have piqued my interest.

Almost as much as a certain pizzeria owner.

But not quite.

Nope .

My Bear chuffs in agreement.

Not quite.

The restaurant is nice and bright, and it smells delicious inside like roasted meat and spices.

My Bear rumbles, a deep, irritated growl vibrating through my chest as the hostess leads me to my table.

I breathe through it, reminding myself this is just a test date.

I’m here before my match, which is good—gives me a second to focus. To get my head in the game.

Except.

That plan?

Shot to absolute shit.

Because two seconds after I sit down, another waiter arrives—this time, with a woman in tow.

And the moment I look up, I know .

Something primal—something bigger than me—locks into place.

The waiter beams. “Miss Coppola, here’s your table.”

I stop breathing.

She steps forward.

“Hi, I’m Ca—oh,” she starts, her voice light, casual— until she gets a good look at me.

Her mouth pauses mid-sentence.

Velvet brown eyes go wide.

“Wow.”

A beat of silence.

Followed by a— a smile .

A smile so wide, so bright, it damn near knocks the breath from my lungs.

And just like that, everything clicks.

Because it’s her.

It’s Carina.

My Carina.

But— she doesn’t look like her .

Not the way I’m used to seeing her.

Gone are the baggy clothes, the oversized sweaters that swallowed her shape, the casual, comfortable layers she always wears.

And her hair?

Not pulled back in that practical ponytail, the one that always made her look effortlessly cute and annoyingly off-limits.

Oh no.

Instead, she’s in a form-fitting black dress.

And it’s lethal .

My cock hardens to steel as I take her in.

It hugs her body in a way that should be illegal, emphasizing the full curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, and— holy hell —her marvelous tits.

I’m not the only one who notices, either.

The waiter catches a look and lingers for half a second too long.

Big mistake, buddy.

A snarl rumbles up from my chest before I can stop it, deep and guttural, vibrating through my entire body.

Back off.

The waiter flinches.

Good.

But I barely even register him anymore because my entire focus is on her.

Her hair is loose, tumbling down her back and shoulders in big, glossy brown curls that look so soft I’m fighting the urge to reach out and touch them.

She looks so—sigh.

Amazing.

Beautiful.

All those things.

She looks like mine.

My entire body coils tight, ready to move, ready to close the space between us, ready to pull her into me like some crazed territorial beast.

And then I realize she’s still standing.

Because I haven’t moved.

Haven’t spoken.

Just sat here like a star struck idiot , openly gawking at her while my brain went completely off the rails.

Smooth, Horace.

Real smooth.

I shake myself out of it, forcing words past the absolute chaos in my head.

“You look beautiful,” I say—because, hell , how could I not?

Her cheeks flush pink.

A soft blush.

And I like it.

I like that I did that.

That I made her cheeks go pink.

That it was me.

She smiles— shy, pleased —and murmurs, “Thank you.”

I’m on my feet in an instant, moving before I even think about it, reaching for her chair and pulling it out for her, effectively shoving the waiter out of the way in the process.

Mine.

She’s mine.

She just doesn’t know it yet.