Page 11 of Sweet Heart for the Bear

I mean, come on. Who just walks around in freezing weather like it’s nothing?

That’s either peak overconfidence or some sort of supernatural heat source at work.

The old man with him is all warmth and kindness, the type of person who instantly makes you feel at ease. But Horace?

Horace is different.

Not in ahe’s gonna rob the placekind of way—nothing like that.

No, it’s more like he’s holding something back.

Like there’s some hidden power there, coiled tight, carefully controlled.

He doesn’t look restless, doesn’t fidget or shift like some big guy uncomfortable in his surroundings. He simply is.

And I should be wary.

But if anything? I’m curious.

And worse? I’m attracted.

Two things I definitely do not need to be feeling, not with everything else I’ve got going on.

Shaking it off, I grab the drinks and walk them over to their table, setting them downwithout spilling a drop.

Thank. Fuck.

I’d say forgive the potty mouth, but I’m a jersey Girl and we all have them.

You can deal with it or get lost.

I’ve had enough of folks trying to make me over. And I am not interested in changing myself to suit anyone else’s needs.

That kind of behavior falls directly into thefuck nocolumn of my internal to do list.

“Here you are,” I say, exhaling like I didn’t just go through a whole inner monologue over a man’s presence. “Have you decided?”

Uncle Uzzi gives me a warm smile. “Thank you, Carina.”

“My pleasure, Mr.…?”

“Please, call me Uncle Uzzi. Everyone does.”

“My pleasure,Uncle Uzzi,” I say with a little nod, already liking him.

And then I glance at Horace.

He’s still staring at the menu, completely oblivious to the fact that I exist.

A tiny flicker of something—disappointment?—stirs in my chest before I shove it aside.

Don’t be silly. He’s not here for you.

I turn my attention back to Uncle Uzzi, who’s still smiling like he knows things.

“Everything looks marvelous, and it smells even better,” he says, patting his stomach. “I think I’ll start with the house salad and a personal spinach and ricotta pie.”

“Wonderful,” I say, jotting it down. “And for you, Horace?”

---