She’s wearing what appears to be designer springtime chic—a pale yellow dress that whispers “expensive” and shoes that definitely didn’t come from the clearance rack. She’s got about ten years on me, so that puts her somewhere in her early forties.
This here is the woman who threw the most infamous parties in Honey Hollow history, the kind where underage drinking was practically encouraged and teenage debauchery was considered an art form. She let my sisters, me, and basically anyone under eighteen join the festivities, which probably explains why half the town’s current thirty-somethings still get nostalgic whenever they smell cheap beer and teenage regret. Regina’s house parties were legendary—the kind of legendary that gets immortalized in high school bathroom stall graffiti and police department incident reports.
Her smile could probably get her out of murder charges or into exclusive country clubs. Basically, she looks like what happens when a small-town scandal gets a makeover and marries extremely well.
“Little Lottie Lemon!” Gina squeals, opening her arms. “Look at you! Still causing trouble, I hope?”
Before I can answer, I’m engulfed in a hug that holds the scent of expensive perfume and success. For a moment, I’m fifteen again, sneaking into Gina’s legendary house parties and feeling like thecoolest kid in Vermont because Regina Kowalski actually knew my name.
“You look incredible,” I tell her, which is the understatement of the century. “Marriage to a millionaire clearly agrees with you.” Everyone in Honey Hollow knows all about the diamond-clad nuptials.
“It has its perks.” She laughs, that same throaty sound that used to make all the boys in high school forget their own names. “But look at you! Three babies, I hear? You’ve been busy!”
“Tell me about it,” I say, gesturing to my crew. “That cutie with the pigtails is Lyla Nell, and those sweet twins are Ozzy and Corbin. They’re officially over a month, and they’ve been planning world domination since birth.”
I give a wistful smile at Regina Kowalski, who is actually Regina Whitmore now.
Everyone in town who’s up on their Honey Hollow history knows that the Whitmores are our local legacy multi-millionaire family. They struck it big back in the 1970s when Duncan Whitmore Senior had the brilliant idea to take his grandmother’s chocolate recipes and turn them into a luxury empire. What started as a small candy shop downtown grew into Whitmore Chocolatiers, supplying high-end chocolates to fancy hotels and gourmet stores across the country. Three generations later, they own half the town and basically function as our unofficial royal family.
“How have you been?” Lainey asks her. “Last I heard, you were cruising through Europe, looking for a castle to live in.”
Gina laughs. “Suffice it to say, I couldn’t find a castle that suited me. We just bought a mansion right on the lake,” Gina says, gesturing toward the massive estate visible across the water. “We’re right back in Honey Hollow where we belong. You should see the view from the master bedroom. It’s absolutely divine.”
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear it,” Lainey jumps with excitement. “Welcome home!”
“That’s amazing,” I tell her, though I’m still processing the fact that rough and rowdy Regina Kowalski from down the street is now lady of the manor. Her transformation from bad girl to millionaire’s wife isthe stuff of fairy tales—if fairy tales involved beach weddings in the south of France attended by Hollywood elite and enough champagne to float a yacht.
Noah and Everett materialize at my shoulder with the stealth of ninjas wearing bunny ears.
“Your mother has the kids,” Noah is quick to tell me. “We’re going to patrol the perimeter,” he says quietly, his eyes already scanning the rim of the lake. “Keep your phone on.”
Everett leans in and whispers, “We all know what that ghost means.” The way he says it—low and close to my ear—makes me momentarily forget about murder and think about other things entirely. Everett can make even danger sound delicious, and my next bedtime craving. “Text immediately if anything feels off. And maybe yell for good measure.”
They disappear into the crowd with the efficiency of two men who’ve learned that supernatural warnings in Honey Hollow are not suggestions—they’re previews of coming attractions, deadly attractions. And I know it full well, too.
“Wow—who were those gorgeous specimens?” Gina asks, watching them go with the kind of interest that suggests she’s already picking out names for their future children.
I clear my throat because I already happen to have children with both of those men. And I know firsthand that neither of their children likes to sleep—a fact that Gina would definitely not find sexy. Regina Kowalski has always valued her beauty sleep, as evidenced by her perfect skin and the fact that she probably doesn’t know what three A.M. looks like unless it involves champagne and poor decisions.
“My husband and my ex-husband,” I say, because at this point in my life, explaining my romantic situation requires a flowchart and possibly a legal degree. “It’s complicated.”
“Honey, complicated is my middle name,” Gina barks out a laugh. “I’m married to a chocolate empire, which is exactly as delicious and dysfunctional as it sounds. Nothing says family dinner quite like arguing over profit margins while eating five-hundred-dollar-a-pound bonbons. Turns out, money really CAN buy happiness, it just comes covered in cocoa butter and family drama.”
Lainey sighs at the thought. “You had me at five-hundred-dollar-a-pound bonbons.”
“Me, too,” I say as Lainey ducks out for a hot second before reappearing with her daughters in tow—Josie, who’s two and currently hiding behind her mother’s legs while clutching a stuffed pink bunny who is well-worn and missing an ear, and baby Mimi, who’s fast asleep in her carrier despite the festival chaos. They both have the same caramel hair and amber eyes like their sweet mama.
It’s funny, because even though I was adopted into the Lemon family, Lainey and I always looked like full biological sisters. It was our younger sister Meg who looked like the genetically odd man out. Or odd sister out, as it were.
“These are my girls,” Lainey says proudly. “Josie and Mimi.”
Both girls have Lainey’s caramel hair and hazel eyes.
Gina crouches down to Josie’s level. “Hello there, beautiful. I love your bunny.”
Josie peeks out from behind Lainey’s legs, temporarily charmed by the attention from the pretty lady.
And just like that, here comes Carlotta—storming our way as she sizes up Gina with unabashed curiosity.
