Page 23 of Hungry As Her Python

I’d gone from irritated to suspicious to full-on homicidal about it.

“I think it’s time we talked about who might have a grudge against you,” he said.

Anger flared hot in my chest. “I’m part of the Witch Trifecta that keeps Castor’s Corner safe,” I snapped. “How could someone I know do this to me?”

“I’m not sure, Bella. Could you have a disgruntled customer? Someone who received a wrong order?”

“I do not get orders wrong!” I said, puffing up like a ticked-off hen. “My goodies are made with the best of intentions, and I fill each order precisely as it should be filled.”

“Bella, I know you have a gift for baking. And for the record, I think your goodies are perfect,” he rumbled in that deep, husky tone that wrapped around me like honey over warm bread.

And just like that, my bruised ego went from sulking in the corner to humming happily in an apron.

I hated how much I liked the way he said it.

Don’t be so needy, Bella.

“But if there’s anyone with even the slightest grievance, it could help us,” Conrad pressed gently.

Brave man, suggesting such a thing twice.

Pink and white sparks fizzed at my fingertips, and I quickly tucked my hands behind my back.

His eyebrow quirked up, but I only shrugged.

“I did use royal blue fondant on Grayson Fox’s sixth birthday cake instead of cerulean blue, but that was only after checking with his mother,” I admitted. “The cerulean dye was out of stock.”

“Okay, that’s a start.”

“Fine. I ran out of Bavarian-filled donut holes for the library last Wednesday and substituted vanilla custard. And the senior center’s order was late yesterday because my produce delivery was delayed.”

He grinned—actually grinned—like I’d just told him the cutest joke instead of my most heinous professional crimes.

“Not sure any of those qualify as arson-worthy, but I’ll look into it.”

My heart gave a stupid little lurch.

The man was bewitching me, and he wasn’t even a Wizard or Warlock.

It wasn’t fair.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Petyr by the dumpster, hauling trash.

“Sonovacockroach!” I yelped.

“What isssss it?” Conrad hissed, moving in front of me and scanning for danger.

“Is that my pink apron?” I asked my familiar.

“Sorry, my Witchy. It cannot be saved,” Petyr said solemnly.

“Dammit!” I stomped my foot like a toddler denied dessert.

“Sorry about your apron, Maribella,” Conrad murmured, the way he said my full name sent a ripple of heat through me that had nothing to do with the lingering smoke.

I was still clutching the broken remains of my favorite rolling pin, and between that and my apron, my emotions were riding the high-speed broom to Meltdown City.

“Maribella? Are you alright?” he asked, cautiously stepping closer.