Page 6 of Toxic Apple Turnovers

Cormack slings her arm around his shoulder just as the music picks up in volume. “But we certainly get along, don’t we, Big Boss?” She yanks him to the middle of the room and starts in on some sort of stripper moves as she shimmies up and down his body.

“I hate it when she calls him that.”

Everett leans in. “You know what I’d like to hear you call me in about an hour?”

“My ex-fiancé?” I make a face.

“My first name.” His lids hood dangerously low as a wicked grin twitches on his lips.

I may have called him by his spicy moniker a time or two when we’ve been in a compromising position, but only because the throes of passion practically demanded it.

“How about Mr. Sexy?” I’m about to lift my arms around his shoulders just as a brunette in a power suit glides between us.

“Essex, you dirty dog.” She chortles, and it’s not until I step around her do I realize it’s Fiona Dagmeyer, a defense attorney slash ex-girlfriend of his. Okay, so girlfriend is stretching it. More like lady friend—of the night.

Yes, Everett was a dirty dog when you get down to it, or at least he was before he met me. Oh heck, he’s still very much so to this day—and this time, it’s exclusively with me.

She turns my way with her crimson lips twisted in a knot of dissatisfaction. The aforementioned power suit is poppy orange, her eyes are filled with a familiar fire, and judging by that scowl on her face, she’s not too thrilled with her ex’s newfound disposition.

“Lottie.” She smacks her lips with disdain, but I couldn’t care less. A woman from Everett’s past who actually has my name right is an impressive unicorn in my book.

I lean in. “This is the part where you congratulate the happy couple.” A gloating smile twitches on my lips. I can’t help it. Fiona Dagmeyer has always acted as if she were superior to me in every way. And in the past, she’s always had the “Essex” upper hand.

She glances back at Noah and Cormack. “And I have.” She turns back to Everett and starts rattling off something about a backlog of cases down at the courthouse, and my brain essentially shuts off to the conversation.

Instead, I turn to see if I can find that adorable little specter flying around here someplace. For once I’d like the heads-up on who is going to bite the big one. But I don’t see the adorable fuzzy little owl. I see Greer Giles in her ghostly frame, glowing like the ethereal being she is, waving me over by the mouth of the entry.

I do my best to thread my way through the crowd and smack into a body.

“Oh, sorry!” I say, stepping back, only to realize I’ve just bumped into Holland Grand of Grand Orchards. “Holland! It’s so nice to see you.” Awkward to see you is more like it. Awkward to see anyone is astutely accurate. I didn’t want an engagement party. I’m certainly not engaged. Am I? I glance down at that rock glittering on my finger as if it were contesting my protests. Everett’s mother gave it to me months ago when she found out Everett and I weren’t doing rings. It was once her mother’s, and I’m sure it’s worth more than all of the real estate in Honey Hollow combined.

“Lottie Lemon!” Holland offers a giant grin. Holland and I grew up together. He’s a year younger than me. For a while he dated my sister, Meg, and that went south quickly. Rumor has it, he’s the very person who sent Meg running toward Vegas in the first place.

Just as he opens his mouth to say something else, an arm comes up over his neck and nearly flips him backward. I quickly recognize the face that the arm is attached to as none other than Meg herself.

“What the heck are you doing here, Holland Grand?” She spits his name out as if it were a curse.

Hook comes up behind her and helps poor Holland upright. His face is as crimson as his hair.

He coughs and sputters. “Meg, Hook.” He nods their way with a look of extreme annoyance. “I was just about to ask Lottie if she’d like to bake for the Apple Festival later this month. It’s our annual harvest kickoff, and your cutie pies were such a hit last year we’d love for you to cater once again. In fact, these miniature turnovers are not only delicious, but they’re brilliant. It would be the perfect dessert to feed the masses.”

“Yes!” It comes out enthusiastic and genuinely joyful, the first bit of good news it feels like I’ve had in a while. “I would be honored to bake for the Apple Festival. Send me whatever details you have. I’m super excited to do this.”

“Lottie!” Greer’s ghostly voice echoes from the entry as she tries her best to flag me down once again. Her long glossy dark hair shimmers with light, and she’s still wearing that white ruched gown she was killed in. The crimson bloom over her heart looks like a flower or a brooch more than it does a bloodstain.

“I’m sorry. I think I see someone I know. Please excuse me.”

“It’s your night, Lottie!” Holland calls after me. “Congratulations!”

I thread my way through the mob, and Greer does her best to pull me into the quiet foyer.

“What is it?”

“Oh, there’s trouble, Lottie.” She shivers as she floats toward the entry of the B&B.

“Goodness.” I avert my eyes. “Is it Winslow? Wait, let me guess. It’s Lea.” Winslow is far too docile to ever get into any real trouble. But little hatchet-wielding Lea? That girl is trouble on a stick.

“No, Lottie. It’s not Winslow or Lea.” She glides right through the thick mahogany door.