Page 9 of Hex and the Kitty

For now, though, his thoughts circled back to a redheaded witch with flour-dusted hands and eyes like spring forests. Perhaps there were worse fates than becoming the target of a small town’s matchmaking schemes.

EIGHT

Darkness cloaked the cobblestone streets of Whispering Pines as Molly fumbled with her keys outside the Bewitched Bakery. Her mind drifted to golden eyes and broad shoulders instead of focusing on the lock. The third key finally slid home, and she pushed through the door, inhaling the lingering scents of yesterday’s sugar and spice.

Antique lamps flickered to life with a wave of her hand, casting a honeyed glow throughout the shop. The familiar scents of yeast, vanilla, and cinnamon embraced her—normally a centering ritual that prepared her for the day ahead.

Not today.

Warrick Shaw invaded her thoughts like a determined intruder, refusing to leave. Two nights of restless sleep, her mind replaying the moment enchanted frosting had betrayed his attraction to her. The warmth in those tiger-gold eyes. The controlled strength in his posture even when caught off-guard.

“Stop it,” Molly muttered, securing a sprig of lavender from her greenhouse into her curly red hair. “You’re acting like a teenager.”

Her phone buzzed. Celeste’s name lit up the screen with a message:Chief Shaw gets his coffee at 7 sharp. Wears midnight blue today. Brings out his eyes. Just saying.

“Incorrigible,” Molly muttered, though a smile tugged at her lips. She turned to her grimoire—weathered leather housing generations of recipes and magical annotations. The page for quick-rise bread dough beckoned, Daisy’s hurriedly scribbled notes crowding the margins.

“Fermento accelerus, cresco velocitas,” she whispered, mixing flour, sugar, salt, and yeast. “Perfect for busy mornings.”

Magic sparkled from her fingertips into the mixture—like sugar crystals suspended in air—as she recited the incantation. The dough pulsed once, twice, then settled into placid submission.

Her wooden spoon clattered against the bowl as an image of Warrick’s smile—rare and transformative—flashed through her mind.

“What is wrong with me?” Molly shook her head, turning to gather more ingredients. Behind her, unnoticed, the bowl trembled.

Butter for scones. Chocolate for muffins. Her hands moved through familiar motions while her mind wandered to a certain fire chief. What would it be like to run her fingers through that dark hair streaked with silver at his temples? To trace the strong line of his jaw?

A wetplopsnapped her from the daydream.

The dough had doubled in size, spilling over the rim of the bowl like a glutinous waterfall. As she watched, it continued to expand, bubbling and quivering with apparent life. A large bubble formed on its surface, then burst with an undignified sound.

“Oh sugar sticks?—“

The dough surged upward, forming a column that wavered like a cobra preparing to strike. It collapsed across the counter, one extension stretching out like an arm, slapping against a shelf of spice jars.

“Diminuere! Restringere!” Sparks of magic shot from Molly’s fingertips, disappearing into the dough like stones into pudding. The blob only pulsed larger, quivering with what seemed like delight at her failed attempt.

Molly grabbed her grimoire. Water had smudged part of her handwriting. Had she misread the dosage? Mispronounced a critical syllable?

A doughy appendage slithered toward her prized display of honey-rose pastries.

“Don’t you dare!” Molly lunged, snatching the tray seconds before the dough monster swept across the counter. The gooey mass bubbled, almost seeming to sulk at missing its target.

A sharp knock at the front window revealed Mrs. Pennington and her daughter peering inside, their eyes widening as the dough monster sent another tentacle smacking into a table leg.

“Come back in an hour!” Molly called through the glass, waving apologetically. Mrs. Pennington grabbed her daughter’s hand and retreated with impressive speed.

The dough monster had grown to the size of a beanbag chair, its surface rippling with bubbles. A jar of cinnamon crashed to the floor, releasing a pungent cloud.

“Crap baskets!” Molly grabbed her wooden spoon, pointing it like a wand. “Immobilus!”

The dough froze momentarily, then surged toward her with startling speed. She scrambled backward, colliding with her rolling pin rack. Several pins clattered to the floor—one spinning frantically in circles like a panicked animal.

The dough monster oozed after her, leaving a glistening trail across the tile floor. Its main mass rose up, quivering with apparent anticipation.

“Help!” Molly shouted, hoping someone might hear. “Magical baking emergency!”

The bell over the door jingled.

---