In Honey Hollow, stranger things have happened, usually involving murder. And Carlotta’s wandering eye is just part of her charm—or her curse, depending on how you look at it.
“You do realize Mayor Nash—the man you’re supposedly exclusive with—is right there in the puffy blue tutu?” I say, fighting with the microphone cord.
“Oh please, Harry knows I have eyes.” Carlotta waves dismissively. “Looking at the menu doesn’t mean I’m ordering. Though that gentleman in the purple shorts does look like today’s special.”
“I don’t think Mayor Nash sees it that way.”
“Then he should work harder to keep my attention. Competition builds character.”
The booth to our right suddenly grows in volume as people swarm it from every direction at once, and I give a knowing nod. That would be the Whitmores’ booth—as in the people from the Whitmore Chocolate empire.
The family still runs the operation and the booth as well, and they’ve just announced their hourly giveaway winner. Some lucky person just scored a chocolate bunny the size of a kindergartener. Duncan Whitmore, one of the three Whitmores who owns the company, presents the chocolate treat with a big smile while his wife, Muffin, stands behind him, her expression suggesting she’s counting the seconds until this shift ends.
“Now there’s a happy couple,” Carlotta snorts. “She looks about two seconds away from a chocolate-fueled murder spree.”
“Can’t say I blame her,” I mutter. “He’s been flirting with every woman who walks by their booth.”
Including me. Although I have no intention of sharing that saucy tidbit with either Noah or Everett. I may be married to Judge Essex Everett Baxter, but I was once married to Noah Corbin Fox as well, and both men would kill for me if need be—maybe even for a tiny infraction such as a little flirting.
Duncan howls out a catcall at a group of women who saunters by with cute little bunny ears on their heads as if to prove my point.
Carlotta grunts in his direction. “That Duncan Whitmore is dumb as a box of rocks. Everyone knows you wait until your plus-one turns their back before ogling the rest of the meat market.”
I avert my eyes at the thought. “I’d offer to set you straight on how a committed relationship works, but your brain rejects commitment the way my body rejects kale.”
“True facts,” she says as we watch Duncan’s chocolate booth attract the masses at a rapid pace. “That Whitmore Chocolate booth thinks it’s hot stuff. But has the booth sold out of anything? I don’t think so. Meanwhile, your bunny cupcakes are flying off the stands faster than gossip at a church social. The Whitmores are nothing but a bunch of flash-in-the-pan cocoa peddlers whose chocolate bunnies can’t even handle a warm day.”
Actually, Carlotta is completely wrong about the Whitmores; they are not flash-in-the-pan cocoa peddlers. They actually run a successful business that has made them multimillionaires many times over, but I’m not about to correct her. The truth is, they can’t restock their ten-inch chocolate Easter bunnies fast enough, and I should know—I’ve already devoured six of them this morning. The fact that I managed to consume approximately thirty inches of premium chocolate while running a cakewalk and managing three small children is either impressive or deeply concerning. Probably both.
“Come and get your coconut Easter bunny cupcakes!” Suze Fox shouts, and I turn toward the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery booth with its shimmering pastel banner. Suze, Lily, and Effie—three of my most trusted employees—are running my booth with the kind of cheerful chaos that somehow still gets everything done. And thanks to Suze’sfoghorn-level voice, my coconut bunny cupcakes are vanishing faster than dollar bills at a strip club.
I can’t blame anyone for wanting to snap them up. My cupcakes are darn right adorable. Each little cake sports coconut “fur,” chocolate chip eyes, licorice whiskers, candy ears, and an adorable pink marshmallow nose that’s making grown adults abandon their good senses in ways that should probably require intervention.
I’m about to give Suze a thumbs up, but before I can raise my hand, two of the most handsome men in all of Vermont land by my side. I should know—I’m married to one and was once married to the other. And if you count that mass wedding at the end of our Vegas trip last week, I’m technically married to both, albeit not legally. However, to hear Noah say it, it’s legal enough in his books.
They’re both decked out in shorts, t-shirts, sunglasses and, well—bunny ears.
You couldn’t participate in the 5K unless you were in costume, and for those who chose not to dress up were given bunny ears to deal with. And believe me when I say, it’s not a bad look on either of them.
My handsome hubby wraps his arms around me tight. Everett is tall, has a thicket of black glossy hair, blue eyes that threaten to steal your soul, and has a body chiseled of steel. He’s lethally handsome, and his superpower seems to be commandeering the attention of women in a fifty-foot radius at any given time. In fact, it’s not unusual to see random women drop to their knees in worship of him now and again. And oddly enough, I think I see three different women doing that very thing, right now.
Judge Essex Everett Baxter prefers to go by Everett, although the nickname granted to him by baristas the world over—Mr. Sexy—is still sticking pretty well, too. Even though he doesn’t go by Essex, the myriad of women he bedded prior to settling down with yours truly call him Essex as if his formal name were some sort of parting gift. Oddly enough, Suze calls him Essex as well, but she’s sort of the exception to the rule.
Noah Fox, as inHomicide DetectiveNoah Fox, stands beside him, his hair disheveled from running and bunny ears sitting at a funnyangle, giving him that dangerously charming look he pretends not to know he has.
Carlotta belts out a whistle and claps up a storm at the sight of them. “Great job, Foxy. Way to outfox that pack of senior citizens trying to outpace you with their walkers. And you did pretty great, too, Sexy.” Foxy and Sexy are the nicknames Carlotta has gifted the two of them. “Way to keep ahead of that pack of women who were chasing you down.”
I can’t help but laugh. Race or no race, there always seems to be a pack of women trying to chase down my husband.
“We tied for first in our age group,” Noah announces, wagging a small medal that catches the light.
“Tied for first,” Everett confirms, reaching up to remove his bunny ears, but I catch him by the wrist just in time.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn him. “Not until I kiss you.”
He’s quick to frown. “Lemon, these things are?—”
Everett always calls me Lemon.
