Chapter 2 Lottie #2
“Come and get your coconut Easter bunny cupcakes!” Suze Fox shouts, and I turn toward the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery booth with its shimmering pastel banner.
Suze, Lily, and Effie—three of my most trusted employees—are running my booth with the kind of cheerful chaos that somehow still gets everything done.
And thanks to Suze’s foghorn-level voice, my coconut bunny cupcakes are vanishing faster than dollar bills at a strip club.
I can’t blame anyone for wanting to snap them up.
My cupcakes are darn right adorable. Each little cake sports coconut “fur,” chocolate chip eyes, licorice whiskers, candy ears, and an adorable pink marshmallow nose that’s making grown adults abandon their good senses in ways that should probably require intervention.
I’m about to give Suze a thumbs up, but before I can raise my hand, two of the most handsome men in all of Vermont land by my side.
I should know—I’m married to one and was once married to the other.
And if you count that mass wedding at the end of our Vegas trip last week, I’m technically married to both, albeit not legally.
However, to hear Noah say it, it’s legal enough in his books.
They’re both decked out in shorts, t-shirts, sunglasses and, well—bunny ears.
You couldn’t participate in the 5K unless you were in costume, and for those who chose not to dress up were given bunny ears to deal with. And believe me when I say, it’s not a bad look on either of them.
My handsome hubby wraps his arms around me tight.
Everett is tall, has a thicket of black glossy hair, blue eyes that threaten to steal your soul, and has a body chiseled of steel.
He’s lethally handsome, and his superpower seems to be commandeering the attention of women in a fifty-foot radius at any given time.
In fact, it’s not unusual to see random women drop to their knees in worship of him now and again.
And oddly enough, I think I see three different women doing that very thing, right now.
Judge Essex Everett Baxter prefers to go by Everett, although the nickname granted to him by baristas the world over—Mr. Sexy—is still sticking pretty well, too.
Even though he doesn’t go by Essex, the myriad of women he bedded prior to settling down with yours truly call him Essex as if his formal name were some sort of parting gift.
Oddly enough, Suze calls him Essex as well, but she’s sort of the exception to the rule.
Noah Fox, as in Homicide Detective Noah Fox, stands beside him, his hair disheveled from running and bunny ears sitting at a funny angle, giving him that dangerously charming look he pretends not to know he has.
Carlotta belts out a whistle and claps up a storm at the sight of them.
“Great job, Foxy. Way to outfox that pack of senior citizens trying to outpace you with their walkers. And you did pretty great, too, Sexy.” Foxy and Sexy are the nicknames Carlotta has gifted the two of them.
“Way to keep ahead of that pack of women who were chasing you down.”
I can’t help but laugh. Race or no race, there always seems to be a pack of women trying to chase down my husband.
“We tied for first in our age group,” Noah announces, wagging a small medal that catches the light.
“Tied for first,” Everett confirms, reaching up to remove his bunny ears, but I catch him by the wrist just in time.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn him. “Not until I kiss you.”
He’s quick to frown. “Lemon, these things are—”
Everett always calls me Lemon.
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 them to 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 Everett sired the 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 missing by 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.
“Mommy, I want the bunny cake!” squeals a six-year-old in a yellow tutu.
“Get in line, sweetie,” her mother mutters. “Half the town wants that cake.”
Not everyone. Case in point, number twelve.
I’m about to thank everyone for participating when I notice that Lyla Nell has stopped clapping.
This might not seem significant to most people, but my two-year-old daughter has been maintaining a steady rhythm of applause for the past twenty minutes. When she stops, it usually means something has captured her attention in a way that requires investigation.
“Mine,” she says while pointing at the ancient oak tree that overlooks the lake, her little finger aimed at something beyond the festival crowd. Her usual happy babbling has stopped, replaced by an intense focus that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“What’s got Little Yippie’s attention?” Carlotta follows Lyla Nell’s gaze. “There’s nothing over there but trees and a big, giant... well, slap me with a furry tail and hide all the little yippies!”
I look that way and gasp.
There, sitting beneath the oak tree with the majestic presence of royalty surveying his kingdom, is a lion the size of a refrigerator.
A LION! As in those oversized cats that belong in either a savannah or a zoo! Not in Honey Hollow. Definitely not at a holiday festival designed with children in mind. Carlotta is right! We need to hide all the little yippies!
I squint out at it, trying to get a better look.
It’s not just any lion. It’s a translucent, shimmering, definitely-not-supposed-to-be-in-Vermont lion with a golden mane that seems to catch a pale blue light that simply isn’t there.
He’s looking directly at us with eyes that hold more wisdom than the entire Honey Hollow town council combined. Honestly, that’s not hard to do.
He turns his gaze my way, belts out a menacing roar, and then vanishes like the morning mist until there’s nothing left but empty space beneath the oak tree and a few miniature blue stars that vanish right after him.
Carlotta and I gasp simultaneously while Lyla Nell starts clapping like mad once again, bouncing in her stroller with the enthusiasm of a toddler who just witnessed the world’s greatest magic trick.
“What’s wrong, Lot?” Noah asks as he follows our stare toward the now empty oak tree.
“What’s happening?” Everett demands, his voice taking on that judicial tone that means business.
“I think we just saw the ghost of the world’s biggest lion,” I say with my eyes still fixated on the spot it just vacated.
“Welp,” Carlotta says, blowing out a hard breath. “We all know what that means.”
Everett nods grimly. “That means a murder is afoot.”
The words hang in the air for exactly three seconds before a bloodcurdling scream ignites behind us, and we turn to see my sister Lainey howling as if it were her life on the chopping block.
Because in Honey Hollow, supernatural warnings come in all shapes and sizes—and this one has fangs, a mane, and a body count on the way.