Page 27 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes (MURDER IN THE MIX #53)
LOTTIE
I t’s the very next day and I’m at the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery, right where I belong.
The afternoon rush has finally ended, leaving behind the lingering scent of sugar, yeast, and desperation—the last one being entirely mine.
The bakery counter looks like it survived a small cyclone, with display cases half-empty and enough green sprinkles scattered across surfaces that from a distance look like a freshly mowed lawn.
I collapse into a pastel chair at my favorite corner table, the one with the wobbly leg that only I know how to balance just right, and stare at the mountain of custard-filled donuts I’ve accumulated as my reward for surviving another day of smiling at customers while housing two tiny humans who seem determined to practice their kickboxing against my poor bladder.
And honestly? I’m beginning to think they’re settling in for the long haul.
By this time with Lyla Nell, I was having nonstop Braxton Hicks contractions.
And well, those seemed to have curtailed a week ago.
It’s as if my babies have staged a coup of my uterus and have decided that my body will be their home for the next eighteen years.
Speaking of the twins, I pull out my to-do list, which has grown to such epic proportions that it might as well qualify as the Great American Novel.
St. Patrick’s Day is a mere day away, followed immediately by my birthday and Lyla Nell’s birthday—on the very same day.
Then there’s the small matter of, oh, giving birth to twins any day now.
Although I think we’ve already established the fact the birth in question is more or less a hypothetical event.
Which might actually be a good thing because I’m so far behind on everything that ‘behind’ has become my permanent state of mind.
“At least I ordered Lyla Nell’s birthday gifts online last night,” I mutter to myself, taking a bite of a donut. The custard oozes out the other side, landing on my ever-shrinking lap. Perfect. Just perfect.
A spray of blue and pink stars lights up the area in front of me, and within seconds the cutest little white fox appears with his tiny nose and extra-long pink ears.
“So nice to see you, Lolita,” Sebby says, hopping down to the table and taking up a custard-filled donut for himself.
“It’s come to my attention, that this St. Patrick’s Day celebration of yours is going to be one nonstop green extravaganza.
The Emerald Isle brought to life right here in little old Honey Hollow! ”
“You bet it is,” I say, licking the custard from the bottom of my donut before it makes a break for it. Just the thought of all the excitement that will bring has me already exhausted.
“And did I mention”—he pauses a moment to wolf down the glazed, custard-filled wonder before snatching up another—“that the foxy ladies will be out in force? My kind of foxy ladies, of course. Those enchanting woods just beyond town are positively teeming with vixens ready for a spring fling. Something about the full moon coinciding with your human celebration makes for quite the supernatural soirée.”
“I’m glad someone here is having the luck of the Irish,” I respond, adding buy wrapping paper to my to-do list. How did I forget to order that last night?
Do they ship wrapping paper? Oh, forget it.
I’ll dig out some gift bags that I saved from Christmas.
Lyla Nell won’t care if Santa’s face is plastered on half of her gifts. She loves Santa.
Come to think of it, that might lead her to believe that he supplies her birthday gifts, too. Although let’s face it, those gifts I ordered were lukewarm at best. It might be prudent to let Santa take the heat.
A thought comes to me. “Sebby, how exactly are you and those foxy mamas... You know what? On second thought, I don’t think I want to know.”
“Wise choice,” Sebby agrees. “Spectral liaisons are a complex topic that would make your human brain short-circuit faster than plugging a toaster into a bathtub.”
Some of those things that happened in my bedroom last night were complex enough to short-circuit even the most promiscuous human brain.
Everett Baxter really does have an entire litany of night moves that could make even an aerialist question their expertise in human flexibility.
“Thanks for that lovely image regarding the bathtub,” I say, crossing off pink streamers and adding sanity to the bottom of my list.
At least Lyla Nell is napping at Glam Glam’s right now, giving me a precious hour of peace to plan both our birthdays. Not that my birthday requires a single thing. I’m content letting everyone forget all about it and shining the spotlight right on my sweet baby girl.
My mother jumped at the chance to have uninterrupted Glam Glam time, which I’m pretty sure is code for ‘let’s see how much sugar I can feed my granddaughter before sending her home.’
But beggars can’t be choosers, and right now, I’m begging for just enough time to figure out how to organize a birthday party while nine months pregnant with the world’s most active twins and hunting a killer on the side.
Just another whirlwind day in Honey Hollow.
Speaking of whirlwinds, I spot one just about to enter my shop.