I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him silly, tasting salt and fresh spring air and that particular Everett deliciousness that always makes my knees wobble. When I pull back, his bunny ears are slightly askew, and his expression has shifted from a frown to something much more interesting, the kind of look that says he’s two seconds away from dragging me behind the funnel cake booth and having his way with me. Or maybe that’s just me projecting. Let’s just say we’ve hit a bit of a medically induced dry spell ever since the twins were born. The doctor said we needed to wait six weeks before resuming full activity in the bedroom, and well, we’re just about at the finish line.
“Save those ears for later,” I tell him with a grin. “I think I can work with those.” Heaven knows he’s said those very words to me a time or two, and meant them. “Besides, you look great in them.”
“She’s right, Everett.” Noah chuckles. “The ears give you that dignified look every judge is going for these days,” he says while swiping off his own ears. “Nothing says judicial authority like pink bunny ears. You should consider wearing them to the courthouse.”
“Maybe I will,” Everett growls at him. “Right after you wear themto the precinct,” he shoots back. “And I might look silly in these, but at least I didn’t trip over my own feet at the finish line.”
“I didn’t trip,” Noah is quick to protest. “I was avoiding that kid in the giant Easter basket costume who was weaving all over the place.”
Everett flexes a short-lived smile. “Convenient excuse.”
“Better than needing a judge’s ruling on proper running form.”
Everett lifts a brow my way. “I’m changing the subject. Lemon, you look beautiful.” He lands another kiss on my lips as if to prove his point.
“Don’t believe him, Lot,” Carlotta is quick to burst my bubble. “That man is just trying to get in your pants. You look like death warmed over in a microwave,” she points out with her usual lack of tact, while noting I look like I’ve been in a fistfight with exhaustion and lost. And truthfully, I tend to believe Carlotta over Everett in this department.
“Thanks for the confidence boost,” I mutter, scooping up both twins out of the stroller while Noah picks up Lyla Nell. Noah is Lyla Nell’s father, and Everettsiredthe boys—my bestie Keelie is the one who started saying it that way, and I’ve been laughing about it internally ever since.
I bounce one twin while the other decides my shoulder makes an excellent spot to try to spit up his lunch.
The truth is, I’m running on approximately four hours of sleep spread across the last three days. The twins have decided that sleep is for the weak, and they’ve recruited Lyla Nell to their cause. Just when I think I’ve got them both settled, one of them will let out a wail that could wake the dead—which, given my track record with supernatural visitors, is probably not just a figure of speech.
“Maybe you should try sleeping when the babies sleep,” Everett suggests with the helpful tone of someone who’s clearly read exactly one parenting article and thinks he’s discovered the secret to infant management. Okay, fine. Everett has read more books than I have on the subject, but still, that comment begs to differ.
“Brilliant advice,” I say, trying not to sound sarcastic and missingby a sarcastic mile. “Except Lyla Nell has decided that regular nightly sleep intervals are more of a suggestion than a requirement. Last night she wandered into our room at two A.M. asking if we could make pancakes for the moon people.”
Noah snorts into his coffee. “Moon people?”
“Apparently, they were hungry and standing in our backyard,” I explain with weary acceptance. Face it, my life has become too weird to question. “And before you ask, no, I couldn’t see them. But Lyla Nell was very concerned about their nutritional needs—and maybe hers.”
“So let me get this straight.” Carlotta chuckles. “You’ve got two little yippies who think sleep is optional, a toddler-size yippie who runs a supernatural bed-and-breakfast, and you’re wondering why you look like you’ve been run over by a truck full of zombies?”
“That’s... actually a pretty accurate description of my life right now,” I admit as all of Honey Hollow bustles around us in bunny ears, cotton tails, and full rabbit regalia.
Everett reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We’ll figure this out, Lemon. Maybe we can hire a night nanny.”
“What we need is a supernatural nanny,” I mumble. “Someone who can handle the living and the dead with equal efficiency.” I’m only half-teasing.
The microphone in my hand decides to channel an air raid siren, screeching so loud that a nearby toddler in bunny pajamas starts to cry.
“I’ll fix that,” Noah says, reaching for the mic. Lord knows he’s wrestled with worse things than stubborn electronics. Although those things didn’t have the power to electrocute him.
“Round six of the cakewalk!” I call out once Noah works his magic on the sound system. “Come one, come all, and win yourself some sugary goodness!”
The music starts—some peppy instrumental version of a folk song that seems to make everyone hop like a bunny—and people begin their happy parade around the numbered squares.
To the left of my booth the cakewalk table groans under the weight of community donations—my mother’s German chocolate masterpiece looks especially scrumptious (that would be Miranda Lemon, the saint that raised me), Keelie’s mother’s strawberry shortcake is slightly listing to port, an entire myriad of scrumptious cakes donated by just about every other woman in town, and at the center of it all stands my coconut cake decorated with bunny ears and a face so precious it’s practically weaponized its cuteness.
“I’ll take another dozen of those bunny cupcakes,” says a woman over at my booth who is still sporting her race bib and a crown made entirely of plastic carrots.
Effie, my sassy bakery assistant who could intimidate a serial killer with her cash register skills, doesn’t even blink. “That’s your third dozen. Are you planning to feed an army or start your own cupcake black market?”
“I’m a part of the Easter brunch committee,” the woman says, as if that explains everything. And in Honey Hollow, it probably does.
The music stops, and I’m back on cakewalk duty. “Number twelve!” I call out. “We have a winner!”
A collective sigh goes up from the crowd when the winner heads straight for my mother’s German chocolate cake instead of my bunny masterpiece. Apparently, even in a sugar-induced frenzy, people have standards.
