Chapter Twenty-Four-Bella
The Following Morning
I was already mentally running through the day’s muffin and tart lineup, wondering if Mira had beaten me in and gotten the ovens preheated and the fryers going.
My brain was still doing a happy little jitterbug over the perfect batter recipe that had popped into my head during that dreamy, half-asleep moment right before wakefulness.
You know, the magical space where genius ideas are born—like chocolate-covered potato chips or putting your ex’s cursed mirror on eBay.
And okay, fine.
It wasn’t just my culinary brilliance that sealed the deal.
The real inspiration?
A certain sly, sultry, shower-singing Snake man with a voice like sin dipped in honey.
Conrad’s morning serenade had been distracting.
Deliciously distracting.
The kind of distracting that made me want to slather myself in whipped cream and see if he could hit the high notes.
But it wasn’t all him.
The other guilty party was the rhinestone-jumpsuit-wearing King of Rock himself.
Elvis, you magnificent hunka-hunka-burnin’ genius.
Somehow—don’t ask me how—Snake Man plus Elvis had birthed the idea for my new Peanut Butter Bacon Donut Delights.
And wouldn’t you know it? When I let it slip in the Tasty Tart’s socials that my new flavor would be featured in today’s specials—the townies flipped.
They were bound to be the new obsession of everyone in Castor’s Corner.
Even Mr. Dorian, who usually acted like I personally offended his ancestors every time he came into the bakery, had pre-ordered a dozen.
On a scale of one to ten, these babies were an eleven.
Conceited? Nah.
Confident? Absolutely.
False modesty will get you nowhere in life—Granny drilled that into me so hard I was surprised it didn’t appear in my Book of Shadows.
I was a fine baker.
No—scratch that.
I was a damn fine baker.
And if the Goddess herself descended from on high to try my Donut Delights, I’d probably get a celestial thumbs-up, and maybe a divine request for a dozen more.
But even better than having a brand new donut idea was how I felt today.
No doubting myself. Or him.
No regrets about last night at all, actually.
See, now that the hole in my heart I hadn’t even realized I was lugging around had been sneakily filled to bursting, my baking had taken on a life of its own.
Yeah, yeah, I’d been holding out on myself.
Too stubborn and too scared to admit that maybe—just maybe—my smexy pants Snake Shifter, Conrad, wasn’t the same as the walking dumpster fires I’d dated before.
He wasn’t some Jameson-Vorhees-type Warlock-wannabe with commitment issues and a personality like burnt toast.
Conrad was his own man.
And me? I wasn’t some na?ve Kitchen Witch’s apprentice anymore.
I was Bella Strega, Kitchen Witch extraordinaire, with a thriving business, friends who loved me, and a sexy Python who made me see stars.
Conrad wasn’t trying to change me or own me.
He just wanted to be with me.
And I was about ninety-nine point nine and a half percent certain I wanted that, too.
Okay fine. I think I love the Snake.
I rounded the corner to The Tasty Tart with delicious thoughts of my sexy man swirling around my head and—holy crap.
Look at that line.
“Petyr! Mira!” I bellowed.
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.
And seeing how things were going lately, that was a feat!
Now, the energy inside me felt steady.
Smooth.
Like all my magic had been quietly waiting for me to pull my head out of my own butt and admit what my heart already knew.
I could feel it in the way my hands tingled when I shaped the dough, the way my kitchen seemed brighter, like the whole space was humming in approval.
When I sent a spell into the ovens to make the muffins rise just-so, the magic didn’t sputter—it sang.
When I coaxed the fryers to hold the perfect temperature, it was like my will slid into the machinery without resistance.
Focus. Flow. Power.
All mine.
“You ready, my Witchy?” Petyr asked from beside me, his beady little eyes gleaming under his ridiculous ushanka hat.
“As I’ll ever be,” I replied, feeling a small, fierce smile tug at my lips.
Because if I could harness this new control in the kitchen, maybe—just maybe—I could use it to handle the bigger problems.
Like the bakery fires.
Like the furry little vandals Mrs. Gennaro had been screeching about.
Like the giant, coiled, maddeningly gorgeous problem named Conrad.
Was I ready?
The answer was simple—I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.