Page 27 of Hungry As Her Python

“Well, why the heck not?”

“Wait. What?”

“I approve!” she announced before I could dig my hole any deeper. “My bestie might be gun-shy about ye old badoinkadoinking, but if you feel about her the way my man feels about me, I don’t see the problem. Woo her, dammit! Witches need to be wooed!”

I blinked, trying for professionalism.

“Um, I’m here to talk about an official protection detail, Mayor Castor.”

She waved a dismissive hand.

“Mm hm. And if some romantic gestures happen to coincide with the official protection? Well, that’s just efficiency, Deputy.”

Jaxson’s mouth twitched, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

“Sounds like you’ve got your marching orders, Conrad,” Jaxson said with way too much satisfaction. “Keep Bella safe—and apparently bring flowers.”

“Uh, yes, sir?”

Yeah, it came out like a question, which only made Evie’s smirk wider.

Look, the last thing I needed was to have my complete and utter failure at wooing my mate dissected in front of Castor’s Corner’s golden couple.

For fuck’s sake, a man could only take so much.

I was this close to asking if they wanted to critique my kissing technique while we were at it.

But when the mayor and the sheriff—who also happened to be your boss—gave you orders, you didn’t argue.

You nodded, you smiled, and you prayed you’d live to regret it later.

At any rate, my Python was already fully on board with both objectives.

He heard keep her safe and bring gifts and immediately started planning our mating ceremony.

I was just hoping to survive the courtship phase first.

Chapter Eight-Bella

After Conrad left, it was all I could do to pick up the pieces—literally—and move on.

Hardtack still littered the sidewalk in sad, stale mounds, but the three Domovyks were having the time of their lives.

They’d turned cleanup into a vodka-fueled snack fest, chomping through the vile stuff like Evie and I went through strawberry custard donut holes after wine night.

Petyr suddenly jumped up, ears twitching, and shouted something in his native tongue—a language that sounded like Russian, Romanian, and Klingon had all gotten drunk together and decided to raise a baby.

I didn’t have a clue what he said.

But judging from the vein pulsing in his furry little forehead, it wasn’t “Hey, let’s all hug it out.”

Petyr was generally my happy-go-lucky kitchen shadow, but ever since we’d been targeted by some pyro-happy punk, his typically cheerful magical panties had gotten into a gnarly twist.

I couldn’t blame him.

He’d been cleaning up more fire damage than frosting lately, and even a magical being had a burnout point.

That he was still doing it for me made tears sting my eyes.