Page 19 of Hungry As Her Python

How’s a Witch supposed to get over a guy if he keeps popping up everywhere like glitter after a crafting accident?

For fork’s sake, give a girl some breathing room!

(Donny’s been teaching me how to curse without actually cursing. Whaddya think? She says I’m at creative toddler level. And I’ll take it.)

And all this while I’m in the middle of my ongoing experiments in the Holy Grail of Witchy baking.

Calorie-free goodies.

Yes, that’s right.

Goodies that don’t stick to your thighs, belly, or anywhere else Great Aunt Edna liked to pinch and comment on at family gatherings.

And I’m not talking about the diet kind where you pretend swapping sugar for something that tastes like powdered sadness is just as good.

No, I meant full-on, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth perfection that wouldn’t add an inch to your hips, magically or otherwise.

When—not if—I cracked that code? My friends and I would be the happiest Witches in all of Castor’s Corner.

Possibly the world.

There might be parades.

Definitely fireworks.

I was proud of my goodies.

And no, I didn’t mean the ones I inherited from my awesome Italian and Viking ancestors—though, let’s be real, those were top tier, too.

I was talking about my baked goodies, not my Witchy-metabolism-proof curves.

Still, credit where credit’s due—nobody filled out a triple D-cup like I did.

I was basically the poster child for hourglass, but with extra sand around the middle parts.

The thing is, every other Witch in the known supernatural world seems to stay young and thin for hundreds of years.

The Goddess hands out eternal beauty like it’s candy on Halloween.

And me? I got the longevity part, sure. At least, I’m assuming I did.

But the magically maintain a size two without trying gene?

Yeah, that one skipped me entirely.

It didn’t matter how much I watched what I ate—and by watched, I meant actually gave in and tried starving myself that one time.

It was a disaster.

My magic went absolutely feral. I accidentally zapped my father right on his backside in the middle of Sunday dinner.

The man couldn’t sit for a week.

Lesson learned.

Hangry Bella equals hazardous Bella.

Still—every other Witch in town could inhale a dozen donuts and not gain an ounce.