It’s true. Gwyneth has a lot to say about mystyleof parenting. But she’s a great babysitter, so I just bite my tongue and listen.
Give the little barking cutie some time,Sherlock adds patiently, and for a moment, I’m not sure if he’s talking about Truffle or Gwyneth.She’s had a rough night. Haven’t we all.
That’s the understatement of the century. Poor Truffle spent most of the night whimpering in my cottage, and Ella decided sleep was overrated now that she’s mastered sitting up on her own. But who needs sleep when you have caffeine and sheer willpower?
Me, that’s who. Heaven knows there’s not enough caffeine in the world to combat the serious shut-eye deficit I’m going through.
The massive billboard of Charlotte and Piers locked in their tornado-embracing engagement bliss now resides in the grand hall next to the bay windows, because apparently nothing says romance like a storm of destruction. Someone—probably Jordy—moved it inside after the crime scene was secured, and at the moment it looms over the reception area like a very expensive reminder that this wedding week is most assuredly cursed.
Of course, I would never say that out loud. But after last night, we’re all thinking it.
“Morning, Bizzy!” Grady Pennington bounds through the front doors like he’s auditioning for a morning show host position. He’s got enough energy to power a small city and wears his inn polo shirts like they’re runway couture. He’s a dark-haired Irish cutie who gets more than his fair attention from the ladies and the tabbies around here, too. “Do we have any flamingo floaties left? The guest in cottage eight wants twelve.”
“Twelve?” I raise an eyebrow. “What are they planning, a floating army?”
“Also, she wants someone to brush her labradoodle’s teeth before the wedding brunch,” Nessa Crosby adds, appearing behindhim with her signature deadpan expression. Nessa is never seen without her planner, matching pen, and that unbothered stare that says she’s witnessed horrors beyond human comprehension. “I volunteer you, Grady.”
“Why me?” Grady protests. “I don’t speak dog.”
“Because you have the most experience with difficult personalities,” Nessa replies smoothly.
Grady and Nessa are a good decade younger than me, in their early twenties. They both started at the inn during college and have stayed on—and well, fell in love in the process. Let’s just say, not a week goes by that I don’t find them canoodling in a nook or cranny. Come to think of it, they’ve canoodled in just about every nook and cranny this place holds—and then some. They both have dark hair and gorgeous eyes, and the sneaky ability to smooch any and everywhere—together, of course. And they’ve never met a vacant room they didn’t appreciate. I’ll just leave that there for now.
I like Nessa,Fish purrs.She understands the natural order of things. Dogs and difficult personalities just seem to go together.
I’m not sure that’s what Nessa meant, but I’m too tired to untangle it anyway.
Grady lifts a dark brow my way. “I think we need new taglines for this place,” he says. “How about a dead body plus free brunch?” Grady continues cheerfully, ignoring Nessa’s insult. “Our TripAdvisor reviews are going to sparkle. ‘Come for the murder; stay for the continental breakfast.’”
“That’s terrible,” I say, though I’m fighting back a grin.
“Terrible but accurate,” Nessa agrees. “We’re booked solid through Labor Day for a reason.”
Before I can respond to this disturbing revelation about our business model, Emmie appears in the hallway, with her cheeks flushed, her apron askew, and her hair in a messy topknot that suggests she’s been wrestling with industrial kitchen equipment. Andknowing she’s been in that kitchen since five this morning, I know for a fact she has.
“Bizzy!” she shouts down the corridor. “Get to the café. Now. We’ve got a Macy-and-Camila situation involving the bride!”
Oh, fantastic. Because my morning wasn’t complete without sister drama and ex-girlfriend chaos.
I grab Ella’s stroller and push it down the corridor as if I’m in a derby race, with Fish, Sherlock, and Truffle bounding after me like my own personal furry entourage.
The Country Cottage Café hits me with a scent explosion that would make any decent foodie cancel all future plans—bacon, fresh cinnamon rolls, vanilla coffee beans, and enough maple syrup to make Canada jealous.
The black and white checkered floors gleam under the morning sun streaming through the sunroom windows, and the menu boards display Emmie’s latest creations in cheerful chalk script.
Fish and Sherlock immediately dart toward a pile of bacon crumbs and cookie remnants near the kitchen door—probably dropped by an overeager toddler guest earlier.
It’s the breakfast of champions,Fish purrs, delicately licking up bacon bits.
Don’t forget the peanut butter cookies,Sherlock barks, crunching happily.Nothing says good morning like finding treasure on the floor.
Truffle vibrates around the room at lightning speeds.I’m SO FULL, but I can’t stop eating because everything tastes AMAZING, and my tummy is happy, but my mouth wants more, and OH MY GOSH, these crumbs are like little flavor explosions, and snacks always make everything better, especially when I’m worried about things, but now I’m not worried, because FOOD, and thank you, thank you, THANK YOU, Bizzy, for all the delicious treats!the little cutieyips excitedly.
“You’re welcome,” I say as the escalating sound of voices takes over.
After their impromptu snack, Fish and Sherlock bound toward the back door, heading out for their early morning run down to the cove, leaving me with Truffle, who’s still convinced every shadow is a potential assassin.
That’s when I spot three familiar faces seated at a corner table in the sunroom. Charlotte Van Buren sits looking like she slept on a blender setting.
