U.U.
Don’t judge a book by its ledger, my dear.
I sit straight up.
“Uncle Uzzi, are you texting me through the app now?!”
Another ding.
U.U.
Indeed! I see you’ve met your match—figuratively and magically speaking.
“Let’s talk about that. Magic. How did you know I get visions?”
U.U.
Visions is it? Interesting my dear. Next time we meet we shall look into your lineage. But tell me, isn’t he handsome?
“Handsome? He looks like he audits for fun!”
U.U.
He’s misunderstood. Broody. Efficient. Has excellent posture. The man is a Honey Badger Shifter, liebling. You’re welcome.
“A—wait, WHAT?!” I nearly drop my phone. “A Shifter? They exist? And did you say Honey Badger Shifter?!”
U.U.
Of course they exist! Just like Werebears, Werewolves, and accountants with souls. Rare, but not impossible. And he is your fated mate.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, half laughing, half panicking.
U.U.
Which god, dear? Several might be listening, and it does no good to make them jealous.
“Wait. How are you texting me replies when I’m talking out loud?” I ask.
U.U.
Magic, of course.
“Oh, of course. Magic. Why didn’t I think of that? Oh yeah, probably because my fated mate is literally a grumpy Badger in a suit.”
U.U.
You could try calling him your holiday honey.
“Oh, ha ha. Uncle Uzzi, I can’t date a guy named Ebenezer! It sounds like he collects ghosts at Christmas!”
U.U.
He collects mutual funds, actually. But he’s lonely, my dear. And trust me—under that stiff exterior beats a heart waiting to be melted by someone as warm and spicy as you.
I drag a hand down my face, torn between screaming and laughing.
“But Uncle Uzzi, I make cookies. I don’t know anything about finance. I’m not right for him,” I whisper, ignoring the wealth of sadness that fills me when I say those words.
