Page 6 of Sweet Heart for the Bear

But I guess some things take longer to get over.

His cheating on me?

No problem. Get out. Good riddance.

His constantly putting me down?

That’s proving harder to resolve.

Right now, I feel like I can never wear yoga pants in public.

Not with my wide hips and extra-large bubble-butt. But maybe someday I’ll get there.

Right now, I have bigger fish to fry. Like fixing our site so we can take orders or else we might go out of business before we even start.

It would be a real shame, too, because we make really good pizza.

MJ is the master chef behind our recipes.

I perfected our mom’s basic pizza dough and tomato sauce a long time ago, but it was MJ who found a way to produce it on a larger scale without sacrificing flavor or quality.

It is a lot trickier than it sounds.

But none of it will matter if we don’t get any customers.

If only I was better at technology.

I step away from my desk for a moment. It’s really in my and my laptop’s best interest at this point—before I throw it out the window or drown it in the nearest pitcher of sweet tea.

Don’t ask. I mean, okay, I know it isn’t a New Jersey kinda thing, but we went to Savannah when we were teenagers on a road trip and well, it stuck.

Dina and MJ are in the kitchen, busy prepping pies we’ll sell by the slice, making sure everything is perfect for our soft opening.

I push open the front door, inhaling deeply, ready for a moment of fresh air, and—oh my gah—almost swallow my own gasp when I come face-to-face with an old man in a pristine white suit and a literal mountain of a man beside him.

I freeze, blinking at them.

The old man looks like he belongs in some eccentric novel, but it’s the giant next to him that short-circuits my brain.

The sheer size of him is staggering—like someone took a regular man and accidentally hit the "supersize" button. I forget to stop walking, and because I am the very essence of grace, I plow straight into his solid, immovable chest.

“Ooh!”

“Whoa!”

Before I can embarrass myself further, two large hands clamp onto my upper arms, steadying me before I can go full human bowling pin. His grip is firm, warm, and annoyingly helpful.

I look up. And up. Andup.

Oh no. He’s devastatingly handsome.

Like,star of a made-for-TV romance movie handsome, complete with a strong jaw, unfairly perfect stubble, and deep, unreadable eyes.

My brain scrambles for words, but all I can process isbig, warm, smells nice. Don’t send help.

“Goodness, so sorry, my dear. We didn’t mean to frighten you,” the older man says, his voice smooth and his tone amused.

His smile is the kind that immediately makes you want to trust him, maybe even invite him to sit with you so you can just confess all your deepest, darkest secrets.

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