Page 99 of Hungry As Her Python

By eleven-thirty, my role shifted from vendor queen to mission critical maid of honor.

I had just thirty minutes to get the pièce de résistance—the final cake for Evie and Donny’s joint wedding ceremony—delivered to the clearing before the vows began.

The cake was a towering vision of sugar and artistry—too many tiers to count, white fondant so smooth it could’ve been sculpted from porcelain, piped lacework, pale blush sugar roses climbing up the side like a romantic fairytale vine.

I wasn’t nervous about the cake. The cake was perfect.

No, the nerves were about what came after.

“You ready, my Witchy?” Petyr asked, appearing at my elbow in his best magical formalwear—a tiny waistcoat and a bow tie so sparkly it might have been enchanted to outshine the moon.

I nodded, my stomach twisting in excitement and panic.

Ivan and Gryn joined him, both with the smug expressions of magical familiars who knew exactly how to pull off a high-profile pastry delivery.

In a coordinated shimmer of teal, gold, and pearl light, the three Domovyks whisked the cake away, reappearing seconds later beneath the designated wedding tent.

I rattled off last-minute instructions to my crew, then took a deep breath and headed for the clearing alone.

Somewhere out there, Conrad was with Jaxson and Ryan, the two grooms-to-be.

I could picture him—broad shoulders, that easy green-eyed grin, probably making some low rumble in his chest that I’d feel in places no rumble had business reaching.

And if the Goddess was kind, he wouldn’t object to what I was about to do.

The clearing opened up before me in a whirl of music, laughter, and the shimmer of fairy lights strung through the trees.

Evie and Donny stood at the edge of the aisle, resplendent.

Evie’s gown was rockabilly perfection—a halter-top bodice, crisp white with a bright aqua petticoat peeking out beneath the mid-length skirt—and it completely disguised her tiny baby bump which I still didn’t know if she knew about yet.

But that was for me to find out later.

Her hair was swept into victory rolls, and her accessories matched down to the enamel pin on her bouquet handle.

She looked like she could strut straight from the altar to a pin-up calendar shoot.

Donny’s gown was the polar opposite—a sleek, mermaid silhouette with a train so dramatic it needed its own zip code.

Chantilly lace veil.

Red lips.

Red nails.

Glittering shoes.

And her hair—blonde waves so perfect it looked like every shampoo commercial ever filmed had been distilled into one Witch.

“Well?” Donny arched a brow at me. “Aren’t you going to put it on?”

I stared at the white-and-pale-pink confection she gestured to, my heartbeat doing double-time.

This was it.

My moment of truth.

Was I the timid baker who hid behind her counter when things got too real?