Chapter Ten-Bella
Later that week
I’d been fire-free for a few days, and that should’ve been cause for celebration.
No scorched walls.
No smoldering racks.
No Deputy Boman darkening my doorway with his broad shoulders, his deep voice, his unfairly green eyes—ugh.
This was the problem.
No Deputy Boman.
I didn’t know what game he was playing, but maybe I’d been right all along.
Maybe he’d found something shiny to chase—like a taller, skinnier Witch who didn’t smell faintly of powdered sugar and vanilla bean 24/7.
My heart stuttered and I swear I saw sad face emojis swirling around in my brain.
My Witch-proof smart phone chirped, and I looked down at a message from Donny.
She’d been sending me pics of bridesmaid dresses for days now and I had to say—I hated all of them.
Okay, that wasn’t fair.
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.
But here I was, about to become a cautionary tale in Retail 101.
If you’re here, you’re open.
That was one of Granny’s golden rules, and the voice in my head sounded exactly like her when I thought it.
And she was right, dang it.
I was here.
So I was open.
Even if my feet ached, my hair smelled faintly of buttercream, and I could no longer feel my left pinky toe.
Petyr would be back any second.
He’d gone to my house to grab the half gallon of paint I’d left in the garage so we could finally finish repairing the wall the arsonist had torched.
We’d patched it days ago with spackle, but thanks to the week-long rain, it had taken forever to dry.
I know what you’re thinking.
Why not use magic?
Well, magic came with rules.
And one of those was the big, murky, “no personal gain” clause that could and would bite you in the butt if you weren’t careful.
So, elbow grease it was.
Paint, a little sweat equity, and a new baker’s rack from Happy’s Natural Wood Furniture & Lumber.
That Beaver Shifter could build a shelving unit that belonged in a fairy tale.
By tomorrow, you’d never know my shop had been the target of a pyro’s idea of a fun night out.
Speaking of which, you little creep. Wait till I find you.
I heard the back door creak and Petyr’s distinctive muttering as he came in, no doubt grumbling about the “paint for my Witchy” like it was a royal decree from the Tsar himself.
That little Domovyk was more protective of me than a guard Dragon, and if I let him off his leash, I was ninety-nine percent sure he’d string our mystery arsonist up in the town square.
Petyr was a good familiar.
Loyal, grumpy in a charming way, and the best moral support a girl could ask for.
He made me want to be a better Witch—and after this week, I was absolutely baking him something special as a thank-you.
But first, I had to survive Mrs. Gennaro.
Then, I had to make it to our monthly bonfire, drink something hot and alcoholic, and while I was readying myself, I had to try really hard not to wonder if a certain Python Shifter would be there.
Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
Or it would be if Mrs. Gennaro hurried up.