“Have you seen the size of that bratwurst cart?” Niki asks, fanning herself with a paper plate. “Those are some seriously impressive sausages.”
I take a moment to scowl at my saucy sister.
“Oh, Niki,” Lily says. “I hate to break it to you, but they’re just regular hot dogs.”
“Honey, there’s nothing regular about those foot-longs,” Niki fires back. “And did you see how he handles that grill? That man has a firm grip and excellent technique.”
Suze exhales. “I need more coffee if I’m going to survive your commentary.”
Watson barks suddenly, his tail kicking into helicopter mode as he spots a familiar figure cutting through the crowd.
My heart does something ridiculous in my chest before my brain even processes who I’m looking at—which pretty much tells me everything I need to know about how this week is going to go.
CHAPTER 2
I’m standing in the middle of Honey Hollow’s Taste of America Festival, looking at Cooper Knox, my devastatingly handsome detective—and have I mentioned hot?—boyfriend, who is making his way around the lake with the purposeful stride of a hot cop who takes festival security very seriously.
His wavy brown hair catches the sun, and he’s traded his usual detective attire for jeans and a navy polo that makes his blue-green eyes pop.
He’s flanked by two other figures I recognize immediately—Mayor Harry Nash, Honey Hollow’s perpetually cheerful leader, dressed in a red golf shirt and khakis with a flag pin roughly the size of a dinner plate, and Lottie Lemon, my boss and the undisputed queen of baked goods and, possibly, homicide investigations.
Lottie’s caramel-colored hair is swept into a ponytail secured with a flag-themed scrunchie, and she’s wearing a stars-and-stripes sundress that somehow manages to look elegant instead of ridiculous. They’re deep in conversation about something that has Lottie gesticulating wildly with what appears to be a clipboard covered in star-spangled stickers.
Cooper spots me and waves, that crooked smile hitting like sunshine after a storm. My stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with bacon grease.
“I’ll be back,” I tell the girls, untangling Watson’s leash from my ankles. “Try not to let Niki proposition any customers while I’m gone. Or make a grab for anyone’s sausage.”
“I make no promises,” Niki calls after me, already eyeing a group of firefighters setting up a safety station near the lake, all wearing T-shirts that showcase public-service muscles that should come with a Scoville heat rating.
I make my way over to Cooper’s little group with Watson prancing beside me like he’s leading a parade. His Uncle Sam hat has slipped completely sideways, giving him the look of a very patriotic pirate who’s had one too many rum punches. Which, honestly, is not that far off base.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Cooper says, his eyes crinkling in that way that makes me forget basic motor functions. “I see you’ve mastered the art of decorative lighting.”
“I like to call it abstract holiday décor,” I reply, gesturing back at our disheveled booth, where the upside-down banner flutters like a flag of surrender. “It’s very avant-garde. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m sure it’s brilliant,” Mayor Nash says, far too enthusiastic for a man running on caffeine and optimism alone. He’s a decent-looking man in his fifties with graying hair, a serious dad bod, and a smile that wins elections and maybe even bake-off contests with equal ease. “Lottie, your employees are as creative as you are.”
“Don’t encourage her.” Lottie laughs. “Effie’s creativity tends to lean toward the chaotic.”
“I prefer charmingly unpredictable,” I say, watching Watson attempt to retrieve his fallen hat without stepping on it.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Cooper teases, reaching down to rescue the hat before Watson can turn it into a chew toy. “That was a very creative use of bunting back there, and I have a feeling Watson handled most of the artistic direction.”
“He does have an eye for design,” I say, watching my furry sidekick wag his approval while Cooper plops the hat back into place. “You should see what he can do on my front lawn in the morning.”
And in the afternoon. And at night.
A chorus of groans erupts.
“What?” I laugh. “Too early for a little potty humor?”
“Potty talk aside,” Mayor Nash says with a chuckle, “I’m looking forward to trying everything the festival has to offer.” He consults what appears to be a laminated schedule covered in grease stains from previous food festivals. “Especially that Rocket fellow’s gourmet revolution. Though, between you and me, I’m not sure what makes a hot dog revolutionary beyond the price tag.”
“My father is a simple man with simple tastes,” Lottie says, giving his arm a little tweak. She only found out he was her biological father a few years back, so this whole dad thing is still new. “His idea of gourmet is adding ketchup and mustard.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the classics,” Mayor Nash says, patting his belly like a man who takes his condiments seriously. “Although I suppose, as head judge in the food truck competition, I should keep an open mind about culinary innovation.”
Cooper’s phone buzzes with the insistence of official business, and he checks the screen with a frown.
