Page 34 of Hungry As Her Python

I mean, I was feeling lousy, but it wasn’t Donny’s fault.

Of course, it could be the fault of her bombing me with images of what amounted to miles and miles of chiffon, lace, and, ugh, taffeta in every color under the sun.

The truth was, maybe—maybe—I was a little frustrated.

A little sexually frustrated.

Not even my best vibey was taking the edge off, and that sucked.

So much so, I’d been toying with the idea of letting a certain snaky Deputy’s charms to work next time I saw him—only, I haven’t seen him!

So yeah, maybe I’d been cutting off my nose to spite my face by keeping Conrad at arm’s length.

Not literally, of course.

My nose is adorable and would look weird in a jar.

But my metaphorical nose?

Oh yeah, I’d hacked that baby clean off with a serrated bread knife.

Because here’s the truth.

I wanted him.

I wanted him in that hopeless, inconvenient, wake-up-at-3AM-thinking-about-his-stupid-hands way.

And he seemed fine without me.

Which was so rude, by the way.

Business, at least, was good.

I’d been elbow-deep in fondant all afternoon, working on improvements to the wedding cake design for Evie and Donny, and I couldn’t wait to unveil it at our monthly bonfire.

It was going to be a showstopper—nine tiers, sugared roses, gold leaf accents. The kind of cake that made angels weep and diabetics panic.

I just had to lock up and reset the alarm before I left.

“Good evening, Bella!” a shrill voice rang out, and I cringed.

Why did this always happen?

Mrs. Gennaro, a longtime customer, breezed into the bakery just as I was literally—literally—reaching to flip the window sign from OPEN to CLOSED.

I inhaled a fortifying breath, determined not to let my inner gremlin show.

But really?

It was 5:59. I closed at 6:00.

“Hello, Mrs. Gennaro,” I said, pasting on my professional smile as she tottered her petite self to the counter.

Normally, I had at least one other person working the front at closing time, but my new part-timer, Mira, had to leave early today for “Witchy goat familiar yoga” (don’t ask).

So I’d been juggling the ovens, the register, and the mail orders all by my lonesome for the last two hours.

I’d sent the rest of my crew home already, because—logic.