Page 84 of Hungry As Her Python

My young assistant nearly skidded into the back room, hair in a messy bun, eyes wide.

My familiar was nowhere to be seen, but that was okay. Petyr worked on his own schedule.

“Mira, can you please unlock the doors before the first customer has an aneurysm?” I muttered, jerking my thumb toward the front.

The folks of Castor’s Corner took their carbs very seriously. Being even one minute late to open was practically an act of war.

Already, an old Wizard with a gap in his front teeth was trying to magic a few croissants out of the display case.

His spell fizzled, popped, and then zapped him square on the butt.

“Is this how you treat your clients, missy?!” he yelped, rubbing his singed rear.

“If my clients try to steal from me, then yeah, this is exactly how I treat them,” I shot back.

Petyr snarled from somewhere below counter-level—he was too short to see over the glass, but I appreciated the backup.

The little Domovyk showed up after all. My Witchy heart warmed at his timely appearance.

And even cooler, his magic had a sting to it.

Thievery was one of his top ten mortal sins.

I straightened, pasted on my business-owner smile, and addressed the three dozen sugar-starved townsfolk now crowding the doorway.

“Ladies and gents, I apologize for the delay. We had another incident in the wee hours, and we’re running just a touch behind schedule. Mira and Petyr will get to you in an orderly fashion. Please remain calm, and no hexing. Thank you.”

That earned me a few blinks, some muttering, and—miracle of miracles—orderly behavior.

No more glass door rattling.

No more greasy fingerprints on my otherwise spotless windows.

Blessed silence, well, as silent as Castor’s Corner ever got before eight in the morning.

Now, without all that noise, a Witch could actually get some work done.

And Goddess knew these pastries weren’t going to bake themselves.

Okay, technically, I could make them bake themselves—but that took precise focus.

And precision was something my magic hadn’t been great at lately.

Until now.

Until him.

Ugh, I didn’t even have to say his name for my heart to do that stupid flutter thing.

Conrad—the too sexy for his own good, and mine, troublemaker himself.

Man currently occupying far too much space in my head and—if I was being honest—my heart.

My maybe mate.

Ever since I’d stopped actively shoving away the thought that maybe, possibly, the Fates were right and he was my mate, my magic felt different. Lighter. Like it had shifted.

I was now eighteen hours without any random hardtack explosions.