by Unknown
“Oh my goodness.” My stomach turns as I get a good look at the floor. “Why is the floor hot pink?”
Carlotta comes barreling at us and takes the platters from my hands and sets them on the dessert table next to us.
“You’re late, Lot Lot.” Carlotta is essentially a preview of what I’ll look like with a sprinkling of gray hair and wrinkles. For the most part, we both have caramel-colored waves that end just below our shoulders, hazel eyes, and bowtie lips. “Just wait until you see how many women have lined up to buy my new book!”
Evie gasps. “You’re hocking your new book here?”
“Yup.” She smacks her belly as if she happened to eat one of those literary tomes. “Cormack and Cressie are hosting a shindig to end all shindigs on l-o-v-e.”
“Really?” I take a look around at the polished crowd and wrinkle my nose. “I didn’t get the memo. But then, they probably didn’t want me showing up with Noah and Everett.” Not that Everett will be showing up anywhere soon, and it breaks my heart to think about it.
Carlotta waves me off. “This isn’t about couples,” she grunts as if the thought of a monogamous relationship sickened her, and it most likely does. Carlotta has had a somewhat open relationship with my biological father, Mayor Harry Nash, for the last few years. It’s twisted. “This is about taking our power back as women and loving ourselves. It’s the girl power, woman’s hour, and you’re right on time, Evie Stevie. You might even learn a thing or two.”
I give a quick look around. Come to think of it, there are very few men here.
“Cray Cray”—Evie pulls out her phone and starts snapping pictures—“what’s the name of your book? I’ll let all of my followers on Insta Pictures know about it. And if it’s really good, I’ll post a video of me dancing to it on my Tickety Tock account.”
“The book’s called A Whole Lotta Lovin’: How to Snag a Man in Six Easy Steps. And I’ve got boxes and boxes of copies sitting right over there. But you’ll have to hurry if you wanna buy one or twelve for your friends. They make great stocking stuffers, and they’re selling like hotcakes.”
I shake my head at Evie. “You are not buying them for your friends. And Carlotta, Christmas is an entire year away.” I glance in the direction she pointed, and sure enough, there’s a stack of books sitting on an abandoned table. “I can’t believe you have the book in print already.” I knew Carlotta was working on a book, I just had no idea we were already in production.
“This world moves fast, Lot. I’ve already signed so many copies, my hand feels as if it’s about to fall off. Once I saw the two of you step into the room, I told the ladies in line to hold their nosy horses. I needed to catch a breather, and one of these tasty treats you’ve got, too.”
“You have a line?” I do a double take to the table once again, and there’s a line at least sixteen deep of women eager to get their hands on Carlotta’s wayward thinking on a subject that’s baffled some of the greatest minds since the beginning of time.
“Come on, Cray Cray.” Evie grabs her by the hand. “Let’s go sign some books. I’ll be your table wench.”
“Do I want to know what a table wench is?” I ask as the music and the din of voices in the room seem to escalate. In truth, I don’t think I can take much more of this chaotic event, especially if Evie is about to be converted into the church of Carlotta’s twisted mind. I’m about ten seconds away from grabbing Evie and a platter of my raspberry tarts and making a run for it.
Evie clucks her tongue. “It means I’m the official helper of the author. Like the stuff I used to do for Glam Glam when people actually cared about her books.”
Someone groans behind me, and I turn to see my mother, Miranda Lemon, in all her hot pink glory. Her creamy blonde hair is wavy just below her neck, and her bright blue eyes look a bit mournful as she offers Evie a pained smile. My mother is beautiful, sassy, and full of life. Her skin is smooth, and her body is in great shape even though she’s sheathed in a somewhat hideous floor-length fuchsia frock that looks as if it was made of stiff crepe paper for the sole purpose of tenting a Buick.
“I’m sorry, Glam Glam,” Evie is quick to apologize for her verbal blunder. “I never meant for you to hear that.”
Mom shrugs it off. “It’s the truth, Evie. However, not to worry. I’ve got great news on the horizon. But before I get to that, what do you think?” She waves her hand out across the room at the thicket of women, the shocking pink floor that’s making me dizzy, the fancy feast that oddly doesn’t smell or look like food, and the obnoxious hot pink sign strung up over the front of the room that reads Welcome to the Love Your Selfie Fun Fest! This night is all about YOU!
Lovely.
“Mom,” I start. “I have questions. Why is the floor pink? And what’s going on with that dress you’re wearing? It looks as if you can hardly move in it. Please tell me you can breathe.”
She attempts to bend over to take a better look at the hot pink disaster she’s shoved herself into, but her movements are constrained, thus proving my theory.
“It’s couture, Lottie.” She sighs my way. “Cormack and Cressida have enlisted a very strict dress code. And since I’ve been hired on as the manager, I have to adhere to it. And the floor, well”—she grimaces a moment—“it’s a part of the flash facelift they spent the last few days giving the B&B.”
“Do I want to see the rest of the B&B?”
She buttons her lips in lieu of a response.
Thought so.
A couple of women head in this direction, stopping just a few feet away from us. There’s a tall blonde in a white sheath of a dress who has her hair teased into a beehive that sits a foot on top of her head. She has the biggest brown eyes I’ve ever seen and she’s glammed up to the hilt with extra-long false eyelashes and ruby red lips.
The woman with her is a petite brunette with bone-straight dark hair cut in a blunt bob below her neck. She’s plain in comparison to her blonde companion, no false lashes, no ruby red lips, but her sharp features give her a natural appeal. She’s donned a pair of navy corduroys and paired it with a red wool sweater and matching mittens. Both women look about my age, late twenties, but they might have ten years on me for all I know.
“Look”—the brunette pulls the blonde in by the arm—“you’re a very important person now. I know you can do a lot for me. Just like I used to do a lot for you.”
“Just like you used to do for me? As in, you’re through with doing it?” Those large dark eyes reign wrath over the brunette and they seem to be issuing a silent threat.
Evie glances back at the women and gasps, and my mother does a double take in their direction as well.
“Oh!” Mom snags the blonde into our circle. “Verity! You have to meet my family. You’ve already met Carlotta, but this is my daughter, Lottie Lemon. She’s about to have a baby, as you can see. And this is my beautiful granddaughter, Everly Baxter.”
“Glam Glam,” Evie grits the words through her teeth. “It’s Evie,” she practically pants at the blonde who easily towers above us all. Evie is a few inches taller than me flat-footed, but tonight, in heels, she’s almost an entire head above me. And Verity? Well, she’s a head taller than that. “OMG, Verity Prescott is right here in my Glam Glam’s B&B! Well, it was her B&B until she sold out to write a few dirty books. But who cares about any of that?” she shrieks as she closes the distance between her and the blonde. “I like freaking love you! I have to call all my friends and get them down here now.” Evie takes in a dramatic amount of air. “Do you think I can get a picture with you?”
“Sure.” The blonde laughs as they snap a few selfies of themselves, both of them pouting and lifting an eyebrow at the very same time as if they were pros at channeling their best physical attributes, and I have no doubt they are.
Verity’s thumbs zip across the screen of her phone. “I just posted to my Insta Pictures account.” Verity holds it out for us to see, and I squint to make out the words beneath it that read Meet my new
fab friend, Evie! I’m passing the baton to her once I’m dead and gone. Meet your new leader!
Evie lets out a high-pitched squeal. “Mom! This is like freaking huge! It’s going to be life changing. Verity Prescott is Leeds famous!”
“Leeds famous?” Leeds just so happens to be the dicey town that sits below Honey Hollow, and it’s rife with mobsters and strip clubs. I’m pretty sure I don’t ever want Evie to be Leeds famous.
Verity belts out a laugh. “I’m a content provider. You know, an influencer?”
Evie scoffs. “More like a content queen. Oh, mighty one, ruler of the internet, teach me thy ways!”
Verity laughs again. “You’re in luck, kid. I’m about to give a content tutorial in about twenty minutes. Stick around.”
“A content tutorial? I’ve got to get my friends down here right freaking now.” She spins on her heels as she begins tapping away into her phone like mad.
“Lovely to meet you all.” Verity gives the delicate wave reserved for beauty queens and toddlers in tiaras alike just before the dessert table snags her attention. “Are those my raspberry tarts?”
“Yes, they are,” Mom sings with pride. “Lottie made them herself. She owns the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery right here in town. You should stop by. It’s the most adorable little bakery on the planet. Oh! And you should take pictures of yourself while you’re in there eating all of her luscious desserts. The lighting is excellent. I’m sure Lottie wouldn’t mind being Leeds famous herself.”
“Spoken like a true mother.” I shrug up at Verity with a laugh caught in my throat. “You are most certainly welcome to stop by.”
Carlotta snorts. “Lot Lot is already Leeds famous.” She nudges Verity in the ribs. “She’s taken a spin or two on those poles at Red Satin, if you know what I mean.”
My lips cinch to the side just thinking of my time on those dicey poles.
It’s true. It wasn’t my finest moment, but I was doing it for the sake of an investigation. Besides, my little sister Meg manages the girls at that greasy gentlemen’s club and teaches them their spicy moves. In fact, Meg is the reason the tips have nearly doubled the past few years even though management wants to take that title away from her. Meg used to be a female wrestler, so she’s familiar with all the ways the female body can bend before breaking a bone. She used to work the wrestling circuit out in Las Vegas as Madge the Badge. But she’s back in Honey Hollow for good.
“A bakery? Of course, I’ll stop by.” Verity leans back to take me and my enormous belly in just as the baby gives a strong kick and I buck to hold it. My little sugar cookie always seems to have impeccable timing. “A stripper who bakes?” She shakes her head. “Try not to have the baby while you’re here, hon.” She gives a sly wink. “If there’s one thing I won’t stand for, it’s being upstaged by a kid.”
“You won’t have to worry about Lottie having that baby. She’s not due until next month, and I’m betting that baby isn’t going anywhere until spring at least if not summer.” Mom gives a nervous titter, and I shoot her the stink eye for placing that delayed baby pox on me.
All of a sudden the women around us give a collective gasp and trot to the entry of the conservatory as if the room just erupted in flames. A redhead enters the room, much to the delight of the women flocking around her, and she’s quickly engulfed with the mob as if she were the most important person on the planet.
“Oh, look!” Mom gasps herself as she points in that direction. “Bambi Bailey just stepped into the room. She’s the world-famous gossip—”
“I know who she is,” Verity snips as she stalks off in that direction, but before she can get ten steps away, a blonde with a fitted dress and sparkling bangles running up one arm blocks her path.
I can’t help admiring how cute the smaller blonde is in that dress she’s wearing—or more to the point, the dress she has seemingly painted onto her torso. The dress is pink with tiny red hearts dotting it, and a part of me wonders if I’ll ever get to wear something so fitted again.
As it stands, my body has stretched out to the size of a barn, and the fact I eat a cake a night—with a little help from Carlotta and Evie, and I do mean a little—well, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t bode well for my fitted dress future.
The short blonde says something to Verity, and Verity becomes enraged before stalking off. I watch as the short blonde glares in Verity’s direction long after she’s gone, and it looks as if there wasn’t a lot of love lost between them.
Good thing the focus of the hour is loving ourselves. With Cormack and Cressida’s friends, that might just be the only kind of love that exists in this room.
“Welp.” Carlotta snaps up a platter of my raspberry tarts. “My fans await. Who knew I’d be a famous author overnight? Carlotta Sawyer, author extraordinaire.”
The blonde snaps her head in our direction before trotting our way.
“Excuse me, but did you just say Carlotta Sawyer? As in the expert on how to snag a man?”
“That would be me.” Carlotta winks over at my mother. And to my surprise, I think Mom just growled at her in return.
“I’m Sugar Hartley.” The blonde quickly shakes Carlotta’s hand. “I just opened the Head over Heels Bookshop down at the end of Main Street. Today was actually supposed to be my grand opening. I’d love to feature your book. In fact, I’d love to schedule a signing.”
“You just opened a bookstore on Main Street?” I marvel. “Congratulations. I have a bakery on Main Street as well. Feel free to stop by if you need anything at all, even if it’s a strong cup of coffee.”
“Thank you. I will. It’s an all romance bookshop. Run by a woman for women.” She lifts her chin with a touch of pride.
Mom gasps. “I write romance! I have an entire trilogy of hot and spicy books, and I just published my very first beachy romance, Whispering Sands. Book one of the Whispering Sands series.”
“You’ll both have to stop by,” Sugar insists. “Actually, swing by tomorrow and we’ll set it all up.”
Mom and Carlotta assure her they’ll be there with bells on before Carlotta takes off to appease her legion of fans, and Mom takes off to manage this circus.
I lean toward Sugar. “I’m sorry, did you say today was supposed to be your grand opening?”
She frowns over toward Verity. “That’s right. I had a big to-do scheduled, but Verity, well, she’s my oldest friend, and here I am. Some people just don’t care to share the spotlight. Excuse me, those raspberry tarts look inspiring.”
She takes off, and I glance toward the entry once again to find Verity glowering at the redhead my mother quasi-introduced as Bambi Bailey. She’s a stockier woman, stunning features, a head full of glossy crimson hair—more of a cartoon shade of red than anything nature could have gifted her. She’s wearing a dress that looks retro in style, full skirt, fitted bodice, as if she had just plucked it out of the sixties, and there’s a frenetic energy about her that seems to magnetize the people in the room her way. But come to think of it, so does Verity.
I’m not sure why anyone is so out of their minds to see either of those girls. I guess I’m just not in the know anymore. I’ve got a baby on the way and a boyfriend and a husband both locking horns with the law at the moment. I don’t have the energy to care about meeting an influencer guru or gossipmonger.
I turn back toward the dessert table to check on my raspberry tarts and spot the brunette that was arguing with Verity earlier striking up a conversation with Sugar. They both snatch up a couple of plates full of my raspberry tarts as they continue to have a rather animated chat. I’m about to head over and pick up a few tarts myself when I spot a spray of pink and red stars appearing behind them—right on the dessert table—as a furry koala bear begins to materialize.
I give a hard blink and hold my breath without meaning to.
“No, no, no,” I whisper as every muscle in my body freezes solid.
Verity zips by me like a hurricane as she speeds out of the back of the roo
m and into the snowy night.
But I don’t waste any time. I pluck out my phone and text Noah to get down here as soon as humanly possible. I’m not going to sit by passively and wait for something nefarious to play out. I know exactly what that furry little beast represents—death—and he or she may as well be wielding a sickle.
Speaking of the dead, a trio of ghosts materializes before me, and their little cat, too. It’s Greer Giles, her boyfriend Winslow, their adopted daughter Lea, who’s about six and as creepy as they come with that machete swinging from her wrist, and their sweet cat Thirteen. All of them met some unfortunate fate, and all of them have been happily haunting my mother’s B&B ever since.
“Do something, Lottie,” Greer snips. Greer is a pretty brunette who was killed a few years back with a gunshot to the heart on Valentine’s Day. Last year, Winslow threw her a party to celebrate her very first death day. She’s still wearing the same white ruched gown she had on that fated night, and that red stain still sits on her chest like a necrotic rose. “Cormack and Cressida have turned this B&B into a shell of its former self. It’s garish and ghastly, and if their bad sense of style and poor decision-making skills keep up, we won’t be able to stick around for long.”
“It’s true, Lottie.” Winslow Decker, her two-hundred-year-old boy toy, nods. “It’s a budding bordello. I’ve never seen so much pink in my life. I say we place a moratorium on the acrid hue, for another year at least.”
“I rather like it,” Little Lea snips. Lea is forever six, has long stringy hair combed over her face, wears a dirty pinafore and scuffed Mary Janes, and has vowed vengeance over those who have slaughtered her family. She’s a spirited spirit who isn’t afraid to use that sharpened weapon in her hand.
Thirteen hops up and sits on top of my belly, and lucky for me, I can’t feel a thing. His black fur gleams and sparkles under the duress of the chandeliers up above. And as his mouth opens, tiny little stars spray from it.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Lottie,” he mewls. “We’ll do our best to frighten those women right off the property.”