Page 46 of Hungry As Her Python

Hard pass.

Still, maybe that’s why she was mayor, and I was the town’s cookie dealer.

Whatever. I wouldn’t trade with her.

Donny’s magic was a little more like mine—practical, rooted in her work.

As the best hair stylist in Castor’s Corner (and possibly the tri-state area), she could see straight into a person’s soul and give them the cut they didn’t even know they needed.

The kind of haircut that could make you forget you ever dated your loser ex, start a new career, and maybe even run for office.

Me? I fed people.

Nourished them—literally, spiritually, and magically.

Cookies, cakes, croissants, cinnamon rolls—you name it, I baked it. Each treat was infused with a little magic and a whole lot of feeling, gifting whoever ate it with comfort, joy, or the tiniest spark of hope.

And tonight, the three of us would pour our magic into the wards that kept Castor’s Corner hidden from mortal eyes.

Which, yes, we did completely bare-assed around a roaring pink bonfire.

And yes, it did look like a magical conga line sometimes.

Afterward, there’d be a lemon bar tasting at my place—my latest zero-carb experiment.

I thought I’d nailed it this time, but I wasn’t ready to brag until Evie and Donny tried them.

Last time I got creative with healthy recipes, my cinnamon hot cocoa bombs turned into literal explosives the moment they hit hot milk.

We were still finding chocolate shrapnel in Donny’s sitting room months later.

My bad.

Anyway, I was knee-deep in one of my many obsessions—holistic baking.

Not the fake diet crap that made everything taste like cardboard dipped in regret, but the real deal.

Natural sugar substitutions, whole grains, nut flours, gluten-free blends I’d sworn I’d never touch in my life—parts of my kitchen looked like a hippie’s pantry and smelled like heaven.

It was exciting. Scary. Like dating again after a bad breakup, only this time the relationship was with einkorn flour and monk fruit sweetener instead of some guy who thought turkey bacon counted as romance.

I’d swapped out the white flour completely in my carrot cake last week.

Not one single complaint.

Not even from Mrs. Gennaro, who could detect a missing teaspoon of cinnamon from ten paces and had the resting face of a food critic.

That was basically a Michelin star in my world.

“Light her up, Donny,” I said, moving to my exact spot in our ritual triangle.

And no, assuming the position wasn’t dirty—so once again, please, get your mind out of the gutter.

This was work. Sacred work.

We each stood with feet spread shoulder-width apart, arms open wide, palms up, chins tilted toward the star-smeared sky.

The fire pit in the center of the clearing was just waiting for ignition, surrounded by moonlit pines and the faint shimmer of the town’s protective wards.