Page 11 of Hungry As Her Python

Maybe there were things.

Things he and I still needed to work out.

The problem was, I didn’t have the time—or the emotional bandwidth—to play twenty questions with my own heart right now.

My plate was full. And not in the fun, stacked-high-with-pastries way.

I had hang-ups, okay?

Deep, deep hang-ups.

Emotional scar tissue from relationships past, the kind that doesn’t fade with a hot bath and a glass of wine.

Plus, I had the whole plus-size Witch thing. Which, in the supernatural world, was its own special brand of baggage.

We’d only just started seeing any recognition that we weren’t magically defective just because we didn’t fit into the sleek, slinky stereotype.

Meanwhile, every other supernatural species got their perfect physiques and freakish metabolisms handed to them on a glittery silver platter.

Werewolves could demolish an entire side of beef and still have abs you could grate cheese on.

Vampire women could eat their weight in molten chocolate cake and somehow only get shinier.

Even the freaking Selkies stayed slim—probably because they spent half their time swimming, but still.

And then, there was me.

Just your not-so-average Witch from New Jersey.

Calories loved me.

Worshiped me.

Practically built a temple in my honor and sacrificed their entire extended family straight to my hips, thighs, and soft belly.

I swear, my baked goods doubled in caloric value the second they got within a five-foot radius of my face.

And look, I’m not making excuses—I own my curves.

I earn them with the goods I bake. I dress them well. I am, objectively speaking, a whole damn snack in one woman-sized package.

But it’s hard not to notice when everyone else can eat a dozen donuts—a true baker’s dozen—and still look like they’re ready for the supernatural swimsuit calendar, while I so much as look at a croissant and my jeans start plotting a mutiny.

But honestly—honestly—who in their right mind could resist a strawberry-dipped chocolate donut with rainbow sprinkles on just your average Wednesday?

Not this Witch.

Not ever.

And yes, that exact inability to say no to a baked good also fed the entirely accurate—though deeply annoying—voice inside my head that liked to question Conrad’s motives every time he came within a five-foot radius of me.

What’s a guy like that doing with a Witch like you?

That snide little thought would slink in uninvited, setting up shop in my brain and making itself at home like it paid rent.

Because Conrad Boman wasn’t just hot.

He was weaponized.