Whatever’s coming next, I’m facing it—even if I’m covered in flour and smelling like snickerdoodles.
And maybe this time, I’ll trust the magic—even if it comes with glittery push notifications.
Chapter 4
Eb
Marigold Santos.
That’s her name.
The woman the Date to Mate app claims is my fated match.
I’ve seen her picture—because of course the app shoved it right into my inbox the second the magical contract sealed itself—and, well, she’s beautiful.
Soft, bountiful curves.
Warm olive skin.
Curls that frame her face like she’s in a damn holiday commercial for homemade cocoa.
And her eyes—fuck me.
Her eyes are the exact color of tupelo honey when the sun hits it just right.
But she can’t be mine.
No. Absolutely not.
The app says she’s human—or mostly human. Some kind of magic-tuned empathic type with latent gifts.
Whatever the hell that means.
Me? I’m a Honey Badger Shifter.
We don’t do soft and sparkly.
We do efficiency.
Precision.
Discipline.
And apparently, thanks to my fathead of a brother, mandatory magical matchmaking.
I’ve tried calling Date to Mate’s help line.
Four times.
Each time, I get the same chirpy, prerecorded message.
“Trust the process!”
Trust the process?
Trust. The. Fucking. Process.
If I ever find the person who recorded that, I’ll show them a process.
