Chapter 9
If there’s a heaven for food lovers, it probably smells like the Country Cottage Café on a cozy summer night when Emmie Granger is stress-testing a menu.
The café sits off the back of the inn with its black and white checkered floors and wrought iron bistro tables that catch the evening light streaming through the French doors.
Someone—probably Nessa—has gone full patriotic with the decorations.
Red, white, and blue bunting drapes from the ceiling beams, miniature American flags sprout from Mason jars on every table, and there’s a star-spangled table runner that looks like it escaped from a craft store.
The overhead Edison bulbs are wrapped in fairy lights, and the whole place glows with that warm, golden-hour magic that makes everything look like some impossibly perfect small-town fantasy—which in Cider Cove, usually means trouble’s brewing.
It smells incredible in here—butter and garlic and fresh herbs, something citrusy and bright, the char of perfectly grilled meat, and underneath it all, the sweet vanilla scent of something baking that’s making my mouth water.
I’m having one of everything, if not ten. And just try to stop me from starting with dessert first.
An ocean breeze drifts through the open doors, carrying salt air and the distant sound of waves, as the ceiling fans work overtime to keep the space comfortable despite the industrial ovens Emmie’s been running all afternoon, not to mention the humidity.
I push Ella’s stroller through the entrance with Jasper beside me, with Fish, Sherlock, and Biscuit Gravy trotting at my heels like the world’s least intimidating entourage.
Emmie is already there, standing over a table covered in dishes that are hidden under silver domes like this is a cooking competition and not a desperate attempt to please Mackenzie Woods and her pack of designer-clad critics.
Emmie’s got flour on her cheek and that slightly manic look in her eyes that means she’s been perfecting recipes for hours and is about three seconds from either crying or throwing something. Perhaps both.
Leo is setting up two high chairs near one of the bistro tables, and Cinnamon—Emmie and Leo’s curly-haired labradoodle—is sprawled under a table looking like she’s given up on life.
Gatsby, their golden retriever, is sitting perfectly at attention near the kitchen door, his nose working overtime in hopes to garner one of the treats that’s driving his snout mad.
“Please tell me at least one of these dishes is edible,” Emmie says in lieu of hello. “Because Mackenzie wants big city gourmet on a small-town budget, and I’m pretty sure that’s physically impossible.”
“Mackenzie wants a lot of things,” I say, lifting Ella out of her stroller. “Like world peace, calorie-free cake, and for me to stop finding dead bodies. We can’t all get what we want.”
“She said, and I quote, ‘Make it social media-worthy, but not like we’re trying to be social-media worthy.’” Emmie gestures at the covered dishes with a wooden spoon that she’s holding like a weapon. “Do you know how contradictory that is?”
“Everything about Mackenzie is contradictory,” Jasper says, helping me wrestle Ella into one of the high chairs. “It’s her defining characteristic.”
Ella is in her I can do this myself phase. Also known as the watch me take forty-five minutes to put on one sock phase. But her little feet are so cute, I don’t mind one bit.
Elliot is already in the other high chair, his shock of dark hair sticking up at odd angles, his big blue eyes tracking everything with a serious focus that suggests he’s taking mental notes.
He’s a year old now, and he’s got that thoughtful energy that makes you think he’s planning world domination one Cheerio at a time.
Because, let’s face it, he probably is.
Ella, at ten months, is his complete opposite. She’s all giggles and grabby hands, immediately banging on the high chair tray with both palms like she’s announcing her presence to the world.
And she is always, always announcing her presence, especially at four in the morning. On the bright side, I’ve always wanted to be an early riser. Like very, very early.
Ella and Elliot are here, Fish mewls to Sherlock and Biscuit Gravy from her perch on the planter box behind the table. This means scraps. Lots of scraps.
Isn’t that the truth. And probably more than the entire lot of them could handle.
That’s exactly why I’m positioning myself strategically, Sherlock announces, moving to sit directly between the two high chairs. I’m in the maximum food drop zone.
Amateur, Biscuit Gravy says, claiming a spot near Emmie’s prep table. The real action is at the source.
He’s a smart one, I’ll give him that.
Leo comes up behind Emmie and wraps his arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Babe, it’s going to be amazing. It always is.”
She leans back into him for just a second, and I can see some of the tension leave her shoulders. “You have to say that. You’re married to me.”
He tips his head. “It doesn’t make it less true.”
They’re disgustingly cute, and I’m not even a little bit sorry for thinking it.
A few years back, Emmie and Leo got married in a ceremony that involved more flowers than I thought was physically possible and a reception where Fish stole an entire tray of shrimp cocktail.
Watching them now—exhausted and flour-covered and completely in sync—makes me think that maybe the universe gets it right sometimes.
Like with Jasper and me.
You got that right. Leo nods my way with a wink.
Annoyingly, every now and again, I seem to forget that Leo is telesensual, too.
“So,” Emmie says, turning to face us while Leo keeps his arms around her. “First dish. Mini lobster rolls with truffle aioli and fresh tarragon on a buttery brioche.”
She picks up the first silver dome with enough drama to let me know she’s been watching too much Food Network, and the smell that hits us is enough to make everyone in the room groan with envy.
“Geez, Em,” I say, leaning about as far forward as I can without dunking my face in the platter. “Those look amazing.”
“Hopefully they taste even better,” she says, quickly passing them around.
And, indeed they do.
The lobster rolls taste perfect—golden brioche buns barely containing chunks of fresh lobster that glisten with butter and herbs, a delicate drizzle of truffle aioli, and a sprinkle of tarragon that look almost too pretty to eat.
I said almost.
Jasper takes one, bites into it, and closes his eyes in appreciation. “This is incredible.”
“Really?” Emmie is watching him like he’s about to deliver a verdict on her entire existence.
“Really,” he’s quick to assure her. “These are restaurant quality. Better than restaurant quality.”
Can I have one? Sherlock asks, his entire body vibrating with hope. Just one? I’ll be good forever.
Emmie laughs and tosses a small piece of lobster toward him. You don’t have to be a mind reader to know what he was asking for.
He catches it mid-air and his eyes roll back in ecstasy.
Forever lasted approximately four seconds, Fish notes. You have no self-control.
Emmie tosses one to Biscuit Gravy, and even gives Fish a nibble of lobster. Emmie is an angel like that.
“The truffle might be too fancy for Mackenzie’s crowd,” Leo says, reaching for another lobster roll.
“Nothing is too fancy for Mackenzie’s crowd,” I say. “They gold-plate their water bottles and vacation in places I can’t pronounce. Heck, I’m not even sure if those places are located on this planet.”
Jasper’s hand finds mine under the table. “Speaking of Mackenzie’s crowd. You spent the afternoon on a yacht. With a potential murderer.”
“Technically with several potential murderers,” I tease without meaning to.
His grip tightens. “Bizzy.”
“I had backup.” I gesture at the furry among us.
We’re very intimidating, Biscuit Gravy says. I bared my teeth twice. It was fierce.
“A cat, a mutt, and a Jack Russell are not adequate backup,” Jasper says, and he’s using that tone that means he’s trying not to sound worried but absolutely is.
Leo laughs, reaching for a second lobster roll. “She also had Georgie. That’s either the best backup or the worst backup possible.”
“Worst,” Jasper and I say in unison.
“And it might be a liability,” he adds. “But I’ve seen two of the three pets in action. They might be the best bodyguards I could find,” Jasper concedes and Fish stops glaring at him because of it.
Emmie unveils the second dish—Caprese skewers with cherry tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and blueberries, all drizzled with balsamic reduction and topped with fresh basil.
They’re arranged on a white platter in perfect rows, red and white and blue, and they look like they escaped from someone’s Summer Entertaining Goals Pinterest board.
“These are beautiful,” I say, reaching for one.
Ella sees the movement and immediately lunges forward, her chubby hands grabbing at air. She misses the skewer entirely and knocks over her sippy cup, which goes rolling across the tray of the high chair, and Emmie catches it before it hits the floor.
“Nice reflexes,” I say as she hands it to me.
“All these years of waitressing had to pay off somewhere.” She laughs.
Elliot, meanwhile, has carefully selected a single blueberry from his tray and is studying it with the intensity of a gemologist examining a diamond. He pops it in his mouth, chews thoughtfully, and nods like he’s just approved a vintage wine.
Elliot has discerning taste, Biscuit Gravy gives a soft bark. Unlike Ella, who just shoves everything in her mouth and hopes for the best.
He really does know her.
As if on cue, Ella grabs a fistful of fresh mozzarella and squishes it between her fingers, giggling as it oozes through.
“She’s exploring textures,” I say defensively.
“She’s making a happy mess,” Jasper counters, but he’s smiling when he says it, reaching over to wipe cheese off her chin. He nods my way. “Tell us about the boat full of suspects.”
“It was a boat full of suspects,” I say. “And let’s not forget Mackenzie.”