Chapter One

Luci

13 months later

“ L uci, here comes Cinnamon-Spiced Latte,” Ethyl, my best friend, distant cousin, and apprentice witch-in-training, cooed from behind a tray of glazed cinnamon rolls.

“Oh.” I shot up from behind the counter, almost toppling a stack of gooey brownies in the process while eyeing the parking lot in front of the bakery. Sure enough, that tall, tanned and virile hunk of manflesh, aka Cinnamon-Spiced Latte, aka Ricardo Romero, had just pulled his big, black truck into the drive.

I nearly tripped over my own feet as I spun around and snatched my lipstick wand out of my apron pocket. After I waved the wand across my lips, I yanked down my top, possibly, accidentally on purpose, exposing just a touch of plump cleavage. Ricardo was always giving me an eyeful with those ripped arms covered in exotic tattoos. I was just returning the favor. I quickly checked my reflection in the mirror. A lot had changed since I’d asked my now ex-husband for a divorce a little over a year ago. My skin and eyes had a healthy glow, my auburn hair a bright sheen, and I found myself smiling more often than frowning. For the first time in many, many years, I could say I was actually happy. I was independent, strong, and I had a thriving business. I wasn’t going to deny, it would be nice to get laid by something other than silicone, but I wasn’t about to throw away my life again for a man, no matter how much his smile turned my insides to mush.

I tried not to get all hot and bothered whenever Ricardo came into my shop. Tried being the operative word. It took every scrap of willpower, enhanced with a touch of magical fortification, not to melt into a puddle of goo at the first scent of his tantalizing cologne, spicy with a hint of something mystic. He always had a feral look in his mahogany eyes while he walked with feline grace, like a lion stalking his prey. I swore he had to have been a cat in his past life. Or maybe he was a lion shifter, though he wasn’t listed in the Registry of Supernatural Creatures.

I spun back around, facing Ethyl. “How do I look?”

“As pretty as a siren.” Ethyl tossed her cotton-candy-pink ponytail over a shoulder and batted large eyes, cobalt today, which signified a good mood. Her rainbow-hued wings were magically hidden, so as not to spook the humans who frequented the shop, though I could feel them displacing the air as they gently fluttered. “Can’t wait to watch him drool.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. “I think he drools over the cinnamon rolls, not me.” At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. It was easier to pretend he wasn’t interested. That way there wouldn’t be a huge letdown after he connected the dots to my chaotic life and discarded me like a moldy loaf of week-old bread.

“Keep telling yourself that, Luci,” Ethyl snickered, shaking her head.

I thought about telling Ethyl that she had a smidgen of orange frosting dotted on the tip of her turned-up nose, but it only enhanced her pixie-like cuteness. Unlike me, who was built like an Amazonian with mile-high legs and voluptuous curves, Ethyl was a wisp of a girl, with a smattering of freckles on a sun-kissed complexion. But what Ethyl lacked in stature, she made up for in spunk.

My spine stiffened when Cinnamon-Spiced Latte paused outside to answer his phone, turning a broad back to the door, his voice carrying through the thin glass. “Dammit, Lenny. I don’t care if your grandma forgot to wake you up.” The louder his voice, the thicker his Spanish accent. “It’s your responsibility to get to work on time, not hers.” He shoved the phone in his pocket and emitted several colorful curse words.

I tossed a glance over my shoulder, relieved to see my preteen son, Des, all elbows and knees with a wan face and dark hair, had his headphones on while he played educational computer games at his table in the corner. Like usual, Des was lost in the pixels of his computer screen, or wherever autistic witch children escaped when they were tuning out the rest of the world.

I spoke out of the corner of my mouth. “If he was into me, he would’ve asked me out by now.”

“Oh, he’s into you.” Ethyl wiped flour down her apron. “Who orders two dozen cinnamon rolls every day for two weeks?”

The front doorbell chimed, and my heart came to a thudding halt. I sucked in a sharp breath and plastered on a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Romero.” I spoke through frozen features. “Ethyl just pulled your cinnamon rolls out of the oven.” I motioned to the big pink box loaded with two dozen pastries. I had yet to close it and add the finishing touch, a pretty red bow with my card reading Des’s Dream Bakery in bold letters.

“Ricardo,” he said as he stalked toward me, running thick fingers through wavy, dark hair. “But my friends call me Ric,” he said with a wink. “I figure we should be on a first-name basis by now.”

I should’ve been emboldened by that wink, as I desperately tried to hold myself together. Ricardo, but his friends called him Ric? Dragon balls! Was I considered a friend or not?

Unsure what I was supposed to call him, and totally no good at making split-second decisions, my frazzled brain came up with a new and idiotic name. “Of course, Rico. You are my best customer, after all.” I inwardly cringed at ‘Rico’ while deciding against holding out my hand which was stained with food coloring. “Luciella Lovelle, but you can call me Luci.”

“Mm.” Seemingly unfazed by my stupid slip of the tongue, he hovered over his box of rolls, inhaling deeply as if the ooey-gooey cinnamon was his own personal crack. “They smell magical, as always.”

He purred as he dipped a finger in the center of a roll, tunneling into it like, like...oh my! Cinnamon-Spiced Latte took food foreplay to a whole new level. For the first time in my life, I was jealous of a pastry. When he pulled his finger out, I thought I heard the roll weep with satisfaction.

I did my best to ignore the wildfire that crept into my cheeks. “Mr....uh Riceeee.” I panted out his name and my knees went wobbly like they were made of soft butter. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Hmm.” He sucked frosting off his finger while looking around the shop. “I, uh...maybe a cinnamon-spiced latte.” Of course. It was his drink of choice and the reason for his nickname.

“Sure thing.” My voice splintered like the snap of hard icing. “Extra froth and cream?” Or you can lick me, I thought. If only I was a cinnamon roll.

“Of course.” He shrugged before assaulting another hapless roll.

Goddess, save me before I expire from pastry envy ! I felt like a robot going through the motions as I made his latte, painfully aware of him standing behind me, his larger-than-life presence hogging up every spare inch of the bakery like some Greek god in all his masculine, panty-melting glory.

“Oh, Mr. Romero,” Ethyl cooed in a sing-song voice as she handed him a small pink box topped with a red bow. “Luci made special cinnamon rolls with orange-flavored icing. I already told her they’re divine, but she’s having doubts. Maybe you could do her a favor and tell us what you think?”

I spun around, sloshing foam on my shirt. Wait. What? Orange icing? I had made no such thing. What was Ethyl about?

“Sure.” He reached for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, which were loose enough to give some space in the front which I hoped, prayed, housed an appendage that was equal to his large boots and masculine hands, yet tight enough to reveal a snug, round behind. “How much do I owe?”

“It’s on the house. A ‘thank you’ for being a good customer.” Ethyl toyed with the pentagram charm hanging from the leather cord around her neck. Now I knew she was up to no good. She always played with that charm when she had a secret to hide.

I set down the drink with a shaky hand. Holy hex!

“Are you sure?” he asked as he set the package on the counter while Ethyl wrapped up the much larger box of two dozen cinnamon rolls. “I don’t mind paying.”

“Don’t be silly.” Ethyl playfully swatted the air. “I wouldn’t dream of making Luci’s favorite customer pay,” she said with an exaggerated wink while slanting a sly grin in my direction. “Just tell us what you think.”

My heart thumped out an erratic rhythm when Ric turned to me with an enigmatic smile that hinted at magical nights of tumbling beneath the sheets to the thrumming sound of a Latin guitar.

“I’m sure I’ll love it,” he purred. “I love everything Luci bakes.”

“Of course you do.” Ethyl handed him a large grocery bag with his pastries while preening like a peacock, a very naughty, devious peacock. “She’s the best baker in Santa Fe, maybe anywhere.”

“Not going to disagree with you there.” He nodded to me as I mindlessly handed him the cinnamon latte with extra froth. “Well, I should get back to work.” He held up the bag as if he’d intended on eating all two dozen plus one pastries by himself.

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” Ethyl turned up her chin, mischief sparkling in her eyes which shifted from cobalt to green. Oh, yes, she was definitely up to no good.

“I’m off tomorrow.” Ric took a long drink of his latte before letting out a satisfied sigh. “I’ll be sleeping in.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Ethyl forced her bottom lip out in a staged pout. “I have a feeling you’ll want to come in anyway. These rolls really are too tempting.”

The doorbell dinged and I snapped up with a gasp when I saw a short, stalky figure approach. For a moment I thought it had been the troll Gus, the inspector of the Division of Unapproved Magic, a wing of the American Supernatural Society, or the DUM-ASSes as we liked to call them. Since Gus was always threatening to shut down my bakery, it would be so like him to show when Ethyl was up to no good. I heaved a sigh of relief when another trollish-looking man appeared instead.

“Hey, boss man.” The little guy threw up his hands. “What are you doing here?” His high-pitched, whiny voice resonated through his nose as if he was speaking through a trumpet.

Ric turned on the smaller man with a surprising snarl. “You know I come here every morning, Lenny.”

Ohhh, Lenny, the infamous grandma’s boy? Somehow, he looked just as I had expected, frumpy and pimply with a receding hairline and several months’ worth of Grandma’s chicken-and-dumplings expanding his gut.

Lenny crossed his arms, scowling. “Yeah, and I’m tired of drooling over your cinnamon rolls.”

“Oh,” Ethyl blurted as she looked accusingly at Ric. “I thought you said you shared these with the office staff.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lenny let out an obnoxious snort. “He hordes them all to himself.”

My jaw dropped. “All two dozen cinnamon rolls?”

Sure, my pastries were low carb-ish, but there was such thing as too much of a good thing. How could one man possibly eat two dozen cinnamon rolls in a day? And what the heck was he doing to burn off the calories?

“I share,” Ric spat, and for a moment I thought his dark eyes had shifted to gold feline slits. “Just not with you.” He stormed out of the bakery in a huff.

I gaped at his round and delectable, retreating behind. Surely, he couldn’t have been a shifter. He wasn’t in the registry and failure to report could result in imprisonment or worse.

“That’s a lie.” A burst of grating laughter erupted from Lenny’s throat as he helped himself to a handful of free sample mini muffins. “I’m the only other employee at the mortuary except for the weekend undertaker.”

Mortuary? Cinnamon Latte was an undertaker?

“Sir,” Ethyl scolded, “one sample per customer.”

Lenny ignored her as he shoved another handful in his mouth.

“Hey!” he screamed when Ethyl jumped on a stool and leaned over the counter, snatching the sample platter from his hands.

“So, do you see anything you like?” I forced a smile while fingering my wand, wishing so badly I could zap him back when he leaned against the pastry case, smearing his fingerprints all over the glass.

“I’m not sure.” He scratched his balding head, causing an avalanche of dandruff to fall down his back. “Six dollars for a cinnamon roll! I can get a whole pack of frozen rolls for cheaper than that.”

I scowled down at the skin flurries as they floated to the floor. Gross.

“These are not frozen.” My smile was so forced, I feared my lips would snap. “They’re homemade with the best ingredients.”

Gluten and dairy free plus somewhat low carb and low calorie, thanks to a secret spell my mom had taught me years ago, a spell I’d take to my grave before Gus the troll ever found out and shut me down.

“Boy, oh boy!” He let out a low whistle while shaking his head. “No wonder Mr. Romero won’t give me a raise. He must spend all his profits in here.”

Ethyl angrily grumbled and scrubbed the counters.

I jumped when Des parroted Lenny’s whistle. So he was listening? I needed to get Lenny the hell out of my bakery before my son picked up any more of the annoying man’s habits.

Magic tickled my fingers while I fumbled the lipstick wand in my pocket. How badly I wanted to turn this unpleasant little man into a toad. I was certain he’d been some sort of log-dwelling, fly-snatching, scum-sucking amphibian in his past life, and his former personality had followed him into this one. “We give him a bulk discount.”

He grabbed a platter of blueberry scones and shoved another fistful of free samples into his mouth, spitting out crumbs while he spoke. “I should get in on that discount, too, since I’m his employee.”

I shared a disgusted look with Ethyl.

“Sir, those are samples,” Ethyl scolded, stomping around the counter and wagging her lipstick wand at his face while snatching the tray from his hand. “You’re not supposed to eat the entire thing.”

My heart thudded a raging river in my ears until Ethyl lowered her lipstick. Thank goodness modern-day wands had enchantments that disguised them. I couldn’t imagine how Lenny would react if he saw an eighteen-inch elderberry stick, burnished with dragon fire to a glistening onyx pointed at his chest.

“Fine.” He slapped crumbs from his hands. “I’m full now, anyway.” He stomped out of the bakery, but not before staining the glass door with stubby fingerprints.

Ethyl stared after him, back rigid. “What a little prick. He gets a curse of flatulence next time he comes in here.”

I would gladly curse Lenny myself, but I had bigger problems at the moment. “Ethyl, what was in that orange cinnamon roll?”

My assistant slowly turned to me, feigned shock on her face. “Huh?”

I swore under my breath. “Ethyl, we haven’t gone over love spells yet.”

“I don’t need you to go over every spell with me.” Ethyl waved away my concern with a flick of her lipstick. “It was a basic love potion.”

“Oh, Ethyl, you didn’t!” My hands flew to my mouth as I stumbled back. If Gus found out, the bakery would be shut down for sure, not to mention Ethyl wasn’t exactly proficient at brewing potions. Case in point, the potion she’d brewed for PMS had left Ethyl moaning in bed for days with pimples that looked like witchy warts and a stomach so bloated, she looked nine months pregnant.

“Come on, Luci.” Ethyl sashayed around the counter, nudging me in the ribs. “All I did was speed things along. You saw the way he was fingering that cinnamon bun and flashing you those bedroom eyes.”

Bedroom eyes? He was? I totally missed that! I forced all thoughts of Ric Romero out of my head, glaring down at my apprentice. “Ethyl, do you know how much trouble we could get into? Gus would love an excuse to shut down my bakery.”

“Relax.” She laughed, tossing back her ponytail with a confident shrug. “The troll will never find out. Rico will be back tomorrow for seconds, and by tomorrow night he’ll be fingering your bun.”

My hands flew to my mouth as heat flamed my face. Again, I looked over at my son, who was humming softly while tapping away at his computer keys. “Oh, great Goddess!” I wagged a finger down at Ethyl. “What am I going to do with you?”

Ethyl tilted her chin, that speck of orange frosting on her nose no longer cute as it flashed like a magical strobe light of doom. “A raise would be nice and then a Witch Apprentice of the Month plaque for going above and beyond my magical duties and helping my boss get laid.”

As if. I swallowed back a knot in my throat. Forget about getting laid. I prayed Ethyl’s potion didn’t land us in deep dragon doo.

Ricardo

I WALKED PAST MY TWO new clients without so much as a hello. I was in no mood to listen to their sob stories. It was always the same. It wasn’t my time. I had so much to live for. I look horrible. Please don’t make it open casket.

Slumping in my padded leather chair, I threw the box of cinnamon rolls on my desk, no longer in the mood to eat them, even though Luciella did make the best damn pastries this side of the Sandias.

But my appetite had diminished thanks to Lenny, my soon-to-be former employee. Why the hell had I hired the little weasel? I loathed working with him even more than working with my clients. In fact, I’d take a dozen bumbling Butchered Bobs over one sniveling, whiny Lenny any day.

The toad-faced jerk may have blown my one chance at impressing Luciella. Now she’d never go out with me. Not that a relationship with the pretty witch would’ve worked out anyway. She had a business and a child. She wouldn’t want to get mixed up with an outlaw. I should just forget about her and find a new bakery. If only I could stop thinking about her luminous blue eyes and wide, sexy smile.

“What’s got you down in the dumps?”

I glowered at Butchered Bob hovering over my desk, his body parts sloppily stitched together with magical, glowing Duct Tape. “Nothing.”

“Don’t say ‘nothing.’” Bob frowned, accidentally losing a chunk of lip in the process. “I recognize the face of heartbreak. Word to the wise, forget about women. Believe me, they’re not worth the trouble.”

I sank further in my chair, dragging a hand down my face with a groan. “This one is.”

“She’ll only break your heart.” Bob wagged a wobbly finger. “And then she’ll cleave it out of your chest and grind it up in a food processer.”

“Thanks for the visual, Bob.” I did my best to keep a straight face. “Don’t you have a cemetery to haunt?”

“Nah.” Bob chuckled. “I’m on night shifts. Nothing good happens during the day, anyway. So what’s her name?”

“Luciella.” The name dripped off my tongue like sweet, sticky sugar and made my beast purr.

“Luciella?” Bob rubbed his dimpled chin, then snapped his wobbly jaw back in place. “An old family name?”

“A witch name,” I groaned. Why would I let myself fall for a witch? The last witch I’d gotten involved with not only broke my heart—she’d framed me for murder.

“Stay away from witches, Ric.” Bob clucked his tongue, then shoved it back in his mouth when it slipped down his chin. “My last wife was a witch.”

“I think you mean bitch.” The newspaper headlines had called her the Butcher Bride, but I thought Psychotic, Vindictive Wife from Hell was a better moniker.

Bob flashed a lopsided grin. “That, too.”

I shook my head. “Believe it or not, Bob, not all women enjoy chopping men into bite-sized pieces.”

I refused to believe the worst of Luciella. I’d been observing her for weeks. She doted on her special-needs son every day. Every evening after closing the bakery she bagged up leftover pastries and brought them to the homeless. She had the patience of the Fae when it came to dealing with her bumbling witch apprentice. Luciella had to be the kindest person I had ever known, and boy did she know how to cook. Even more reason I knew I should stay away from her. She deserved someone better than an outlaw with no future and an insatiable appetite.

“Earth to Romeo.” Bob hovered to the ground, wildly waving at me. Then he cursed when his hand popped off and spiraled through the air and right out the window. “You’d better eat those cinnamon rolls before Lenny finds them.” He motioned to the box of pastries with his stump.

I made the mistake of looking at the severed cavity that once held Bob’s hand. Slimy maggots crawled out of his wrist and splattered onto the floor.

I clutched my roiling stomach. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Wow.” Bob shook his head. “She’s really got your guts twisted around the meat grinder, doesn’t she?”

I leaned on my desk, hanging my head in my hands as bile rose into the back of my throat. “You can stop with the visuals, Bob.”

Bob nodded toward the box. “If you’re not going to eat them, you’d better hide them.”

My nostrils flared and my beast roared to life, clawing at my insides. “Lenny wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t put it past him.” Bob snorted, a maggot popping out of his nose with the motion.

I gaped at Bob, wondering what offense I’d committed in my past life to have been cursed a clairvoyant. “That chicken-shit knows I’d kick his ass.” Speaking of the little weasel, Lenny was late to work, as usual. Those damn cemetery plots weren’t going to sell themselves. Not that I needed the money, but I at least needed to give off the impression that I had a successful business. I made a mental note to actively look for Lenny’s replacement.

Low moans filtered into the room from the air ducts. My newest clients were waking up. Just great. One electrocution and another food poisoning. Both stunk to high heaven. I sure as hell hoped they didn’t stick around like Butchered Bob.

“Your new clients are calling you,” Bob said with a smirk.

“They’re always calling me.” I rolled my eyes, shooing Bob like a stray dog. “Go on. Get out. Keep your maggots away from my breakfast.”

Ric

I RETURNED FROM MY undertaking in an even more foul mood than before. My foolish client who’d electrocuted herself by blow-dryer refused to accept her fate. She kept nagging me to jump-start her heart, even though all her organs looked like fried lumps of coal.

The food poisoning wasn’t much better. How was he supposed to know that eating undercooked chicken that sat out all night would kill him? Some people were too stupid to live. I only wished they didn’t have to die around me.

They followed me around the better part of the morning, pleading with me to resuscitate their decomposing bodies. I was a mortician, not Frankenstein.

It was almost lunch by the time I’d finished embalming, and I was starving. That’s when I remembered I hadn’t eaten midmorning breakfast. I washed up and hurried up the stairs toward my office, mouth watering while I eagerly anticipated those gooey cinnamon buns. They would hold me over until my daily delivery arrived at noon. Today was Friday, which meant Chinese: four orders of Mongolian beef, three plates of sweet-n-sour pork, two bowls each of wonton soup and fried rice, plus ten spareribs and twelve egg rolls. And those were just the appetizers.

Unfortunately, my species had a ravenous appetite. Luckily, I had a sarcophagus full of treasure and a secret Swiss bank account. I didn’t need to work to feed myself. I had enough gold to last a thousand years. The undertaking business was just a way to pass the time, and it made a good storefront to conceal my underground tomb.

After I reached the top of the stairs, I tiptoed past Lenny’s office, and not just because I didn’t want to talk to the blistering bat boil, but because I needed to make sure Lenny was working and not fooling around. Considering the guy was paid solely on commission, I would’ve thought he’d work harder.

My nostrils flared when I saw the trail of crumbs leading from my office to Lenny’s. Anger shot through me like a bolt of magic, and the beast inside me roared to break free .

No! The little bastard knows better.

But even as I tried to convince myself Lenny wasn’t that stupid, the evidence was clear. I followed the trail to the waste basket by my desk. Inside was the empty pastry box that once held the orange-glazed cinnamon roll. I never even got a taste! Then I checked the larger box and four of the cinnamon rolls were missing.

Lenny! You are so dead!

Without waiting for an invite, I burst into Lenny’s office, not surprised to find him with his eyes closed, tilted back in his reclining chair. Legs strewn across the desk and head angled toward the ceiling, he let out a big, greasy fart and then continued to noisily snore.

Covering my nose with a curse, I kicked Lenny’s feet off the desk. Lenny fell backward with a scream, arms and legs flailing like a newborn infant. “Granny, I told you not to touch it!”

What Merlin’s madness was this? Granny was touching what? Never mind. I didn’t want to know.

I glared down at Lenny. “You awake now?”

Lenny slowly nodded, gaping up at me like he’d been struck with the Idiotica Curse.

“Hey, did you eat my cinnamon rolls?”

“What?” Rolling onto his side, Lenny swatted crumbs off his shirt while averting his gaze. “No!”

Slowly counting to ten in an attempt to control the beast inside me, I impatiently tapped my foot. “You have icing on your chin.”

Lenny sat up on his knees, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “Sorry, my gram didn’t feed me breakfast.”

“How old are you, Lenny?” I clenched my hands into fists, repressing the urge to unsheathe my claws.

“Thirty-five,” he mumbled, pulling himself up to a standing position.

I didn’t know if I was more annoyed or angry with my pathetic employee. “You’re thirty-five years old and your grandma still makes you breakfast?”

“I have a job.” Lenny pouted, groaning as he struggled to lift his chair. “I don’t have time.”

Great Goddess! Was this man for real? “You work part-time, and you’ve already taken five sick days this month.”

Once again, I wondered why in Hades’s name I hadn’t fired this worthless employee. Maybe because on the days Lenny did show up, he locked himself in his office and didn’t ask any questions. Like, “what’s behind the secret door?” and “why does one person need ten bags of Chinese takeout?”

“Lenny,” I groaned while lowering onto the side of the desk. “You and I need to have a man-to-man.”

Lenny sat back down in his chair and blinked up at me. “Are you going out with that bakery chick or what?”

“Excuse me?” What did Luciella have to do with this?

“The girl with the tits.” Lenny palmed the air like he had two huge, invisible air bags attached to his chest. “Are you dating her? I was thinking of asking her out.”

The beast inside me roared, clawing and snapping at my soul, demanding to be set free so he could maul this little maggot to shreds.

Again, I had to slowly count to ten before I gave in to my urge to bite off Lenny’s head. “First off”—I held up a shaky finger, white-hot rage clouding my vision—“be more respectful when you talk about her. Second, she’s way out of your league.”

“She gives me such a massive boner.” Lenny smoothed a hand across the front of his jeans. At first, I thought the guy was packing a pencil, but no. Awww, holy troll turds!

Lenny stood, rutting the air like a rabid bull in heat. “I just want to bend her over the bakery counter and—”

I kicked him so hard in the twig and berries, Lenny crumpled to the floor like a discarded puppet. Pulling his knees to his chest, Lenny rocked and cried like a baby.

Crud. I hadn’t meant to kick the prick so hard. Then again, it beat the alternative, letting my beast handle Lenny. Wincing at a sharp pain in my extremities, I scowled at my bloody palms. My damn claws had broken free. I unclenched my fists and retracted my claws with a hiss. I whispered a healing spell before stepping over Lenny’s supine body.

I could feel the beast’s eyes shining through my own as I wedged a boot under Lenny’s chin, glaring down at him.

“You will stay the hell away from her, understand?”

With a terrified squeak, Lenny clamped a hand over his mouth and nodded.

“Good.” I turned and marched out of the room. Then I went into my office and snatched the empty pastry carton from the waste basket. With my superior sense of smell, I scented the ingredients in the icing and cinnamon stuck to the side of the box: sweetener, citrus, cinnamon, butter, and something else...siren shade.

Damn that witch!

I’d thought she was different, but she was just like all the other witches who’d ever tried to screw me. I threw the box back into the trash and snatched my truck keys out of the drawer. If she thought she could fool me, she was sorely mistaken. Never again would I let my heart be blinded by a witch’s pretty smile and magical mischief.