What the fuck am I doing?
I’m not here to grope the poor woman, for fuck’s sake.
Why not? Could be fun?
Shut the fuck up, I think to myself.
She’s laughing at something her friend says, her curls bouncing with every movement, and when she glances up and our eyes meet—something inside me clicks.
Every thought I had about rejecting this, about calling the lawyers, about staying detached—bam!
Gone.
My chest tightens.
My pulse stutters.
My Badger roars.
MINE.
She freezes mid-step, blinking at me like she can feel it too, and for a full heartbeat, the entire world goes silent.
Then she blurts out, voice bright and incredulous, “It’s you!”
And before I can even form words, my brain’s a mess of holy shit and don’t scare her to grab her and never let go.
I clear my throat, stepping closer, forcing my voice to stay low and even.
“You must be Marigold Santos.”
Her lips curve into a slow, wary smile.
“And you must be Ebenezer Rogers.”
“Eb,” I say quickly. “Just Eb.”
She laughs softly, the sound like warm caramel melting over my skin, and my Badger damn near rolls over in bliss.
“So you’re the guy Uncle Uzzi’s Date to Mate app matched me with,” she says, one eyebrow lifting.
“Apparently,” I reply. “Though I still suspect foul play. Possibly blackmail.”
“Oh, you think you’re the victim here?” she teases. “Try waking up to an app telling you your soulmate’s a grumpy investment mogul named after Scrooge.”
I open my mouth—then close it again, caught between offense and fascination.
“Touché,” I finally manage.
She chuckles, shaking her head.
“You know what, Mr. Rogers? You look like you could use a cookie.”
“I don’t eat sugar,” I grumble automatically.
Her grin widens, wicked and sweet.
“You will.”
