Page 40 of Hungry As Her Python

“What?! I only have eight minutes to get across town!”

I shoved the paintbrush into his little hands.

“You finish this. And I know I said it’s against the rules, but you’re already holding the brush.”

I tried to reason aloud for any Goddesses who might be listening.

“I will clean and lock up,” he said with an uncharacteristically smug grin.

Honestly, he looked thrilled at the prospect, like I’d just promoted him to Domovyk-in-Charge.

I knew from my reading that Domovyks had once been worshipped as minor gods of the home, so maybe this was scratching some ancient itch for him.

Either way, I was grateful.

“Thanks, Petyr. You’re the best,” I said, bolting for the door.

“Oh damn. I’m late. I’m late. Oh damn. Oh damn,” I muttered, tearing off my apron as I went.

Reminding myself of a certain white rabbit, I tore out of the bakery like my hair was on fire and my skirt was catching.

Only I didn’t get far.

Because the universe clearly hates me.

All four tires on my car were flat.

Not low.

Not oh, maybe I should get those checked soft.

Flat.

“NO!”

I stomped my foot so hard the crack in the asphalt probably deepened.

First arson, now vandalism.

What next?

Would someone shave off my eyebrows in my sleep?

Leave a dead fish in my bread proofer?

Forget I even thought that.

Really. Please, forget it.

No sense in giving fate ideas.

I scanned the street, trying to figure out my options. I could run.

Except my legs are short, my boobs are big, and the combo turns into a cardio death trap real quick.

Plus, my chef’s pants are not exactly made for speed.

I was two seconds away from despair when I heard it—the deep, rumbling growl of an engine.