Chapter 8 Lottie
LOTTIE
The Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery smells like sugar-coated victory with a hint of coconut-induced euphoria.
It’s still Monday morning, and the bakery holds the yummy scent of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven, chocolate muffins cooling on racks, and that particular energy that comes from mixing fresh gossip with fresh pastries.
Suze is manning the register with efficiency and lightning speed, mostly because she’s already memorized every regular’s order.
Lily is rearranging the cookie trays with incredible focus—but only because she’s trying to hide the fact that she already ate three of them, and Effie is giving customers the kind of look that makes them order faster and tip better. She’s good like that.
The breakfast rush just wrapped up, leaving my display cases nearly empty—always a good sign. Paper bunnies and plastic eggs decorate every surface, because when it comes to Easter, restraint isn’t in my vocabulary.
The espresso machine hums steadily while conversations bubble around the warm cream and yellow walls.
The front door chimes constantly. Monday morning in Honey Hollow means everyone needs their coffee and something sweet to go with it.
Half of Honey Hollow needs their Monday morning sugar fix, and I’m happy to provide it.
Noah and Everett just took off, with Evie and Dash leaving in their wake, and my head is still spinning after that oddball request Evie sprang on us. There is absolutely no way that either Everett or Noah is contributing their genetics to Dash’s mother in her pursuit of having another child.
I watch them go with a touch of relief as if I somehow dodged a very personal and deeply inappropriate business proposition. What the heck were those girls thinking? What the heck is Dash’s mother thinking? On second thought, I don’t want to know.
I glance down at the twins who remain miraculously asleep in their stroller—proving that occasionally the universe throws me a bone.
They’re gorgeous and sweet, and so very perfect in every single way.
As is Lyla Nell. I won’t lie, I’m more than grateful that both Noah and Everett lent me their genetic contributions.
I guess I couldn’t blame another woman for trying.
The bakery quiets to a hush, save for the easy listening music streaming over the speakers, and the next thing I know, Effie, Suze, and Lily approach my table with matching grins that spell trouble in capital letters.
They slide into chairs across from Carlotta and me with the stealth of women who’ve overheard something juicy and plan to squeeze every drop of entertainment from it.
And I have no doubt they heard the same unbelievable tidbit as I did.
“Did we just hear what we think we heard about Everett and Noah becoming baby-making donors?” Lily asks, her eyes glittering with the thought of fresh, juicy gossip. “Because if so, I have some serious questions about the application process.”
I shoot her a look for even going there.
Suze snorts coffee through her nose. “Talk about family planning with a twist! Are we talking turkey baster technology or something more high-tech?”
First, eww. And second, Noah is her son. She should be gagging right along with me.
Carlotta claps her hands together with glee like a lost seal. “Girls, you’re thinking too small! This could be a legitimate business opportunity.”
“Oh, good grief,” I mutter, recognizing the entrepreneurial gleam in Carlotta’s twisted eyes. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to pitch a business plan.”
“Why not?” Suze leans in as if she were about to make the pitch of a lifetime. “Think about it—premium Vermont stock, locally sourced, organic, free-range specimens. We could easily turn a profit. We could franchise it!”
“Franchise it?” I parrot in horror.
Lyla Nell looks up from the donut she’s systematically dismantling.
“Fran-cheese!” she shouts gleefully, spraying donut crumbs across the table.
“Fran-fran-CHEESE!” She dissolves into giggles like she’s just told the world’s funniest joke—or cheesiest joke, for that matter.
She does like cheese. She gets that from me.
And Noah. And most likely Everett, too. It’s twisted, I know.
“See?” Suze gestures at my daughter. “Even the baby knows a good business opportunity when she hears one.”
I gasp. “Suze! These are your potential grandchildren you’re thinking about selling off.
” Not that she feels grandmotherly about Lyla Nell.
If anything, she’d probably like to sell her off, too.
Come to think of it, she is a tightwad and turning a buck is something she dreams about in the night.
This is right up her cheapskate, demented alley.
“Wait.” I blink over at her. “Did you say free range?”
“Free ring!” Lyla Nell echoes as best she can, now using her donut as a telescope. “Mama free! Ring, ring, ring!”
Carlotta cackles. “Look at that! Little Yippie’s already hollering about jewelry. She gets that from you, Lot. Born with glitter in her veins and trouble on her mind.”
I shoot her a look, too.
“Well, they’re not caged,” Lily points out with perfect logic that makes no sense whatsoever. “So yes, they’re free range.”
Carlotta pounds the table, causing my coffee to slosh dangerously close to the rim. “Honey, if I’d known there was money in that business, I would’ve cornered the market years ago! Think of the profit potential!”
“Please don’t,” I beg, but I’m talking to a wall. Three walls, actually—all of them crackling with entrepreneurial baby fever.
“Judge-quality genetics,” Suze announces with the authority of a lunatic launching a campaign. “Guaranteed to produce honor roll students and future leaders of America!”
“Or Detective DNA,” Lily adds, getting into the twisted spirit of things. “Comes with built-in crime-solving instincts and an unhealthy attraction to danger.”
“We could go national!” Carlotta’s chest puffs with pride as her imagination runs wild in all fifty states. “Honey Hollow Heredity—where quality comes first, and satisfaction is guaranteed! And let’s not forget the bonus perks—strong jawlines, criminal magnetism, and emotional baggage included.”
The three of them dissolve into cackles that sound suspiciously close to witches stirring a particularly potent brew. Other customers are starting to stare, probably wondering if we’re planning some kind of genetic coup. And apparently, some of us are.
“You realize you’re discussing my husband and Lyla Nell’s daddy?” I point out, though my protest falls on deaf ears.
“Daddy!” Lyla Nell explodes in wild cheers. If only she knew.
“Think of the testimonials from the satisfied customers!” Suze wipes tears from her eyes. “‘Five stars,’” she says, pretending to read from an invisible card. “‘Exceeded expectations. Would absolutely recommend to a friend—with proper hydration and maybe a chiropractor on standby.’”
More explosive laughter ensues.
Suze leans in. “‘Better than therapy. Better than chocolate. Better than my first marriage—and that bar was low.’”
Wow. She does realize that Noah is her son, doesn’t she?
“We’ll need quality control measures,” Lily adds with far too much seriousness. “Background checks, genetic testing, maybe some kind of performance review.”
“Performance review?” Now I’m the one choking on my coffee. Decaf, as it were.
“Professional performance,” Carlotta clarifies with a wink that suggests she’s not talking about professional performance at all.”
Effie nods knowingly. “The real question is performance consistency. Can they deliver every time or just when they’re motivated? Because let’s be real, genetics aren’t the only thing those women are getting.”
Cackles break out. They’re unstoppable at this point.
“Come on, Lottie.” Lily gives me a stern look as if she were about to shake me. “Give us a real review. Something juicy we can sink our teeth into.”
“They’re both solid performers.” The words escape me before I can stop them.
They laugh so loud the windows rattle.
Carlotta slaps the table a few times. “That’s great, Lot. Though I suppose there could be other metrics. Think of the potential. We could call it Honey Hollow Hotties R Us!”
Before I can smack her, or smack all of them, a fresh wave of customers floods through the front door, creating a tide of holiday enthusiasm that requires immediate attention. Effie and Lily spring into action with the speed of women who know when duty calls.
“This conversation isn’t over, Lottie!” Suze calls over her shoulder as she rushes toward the counter. “We’ll need a full business plan by tomorrow!”
“With financial projections!” Lily adds, already pulling espresso shots with great efficiency because heaven knows she’s had years of practice dealing with Monday morning caffeine emergencies. She pauses mid-pour. “And we may need a few action shots.”
Good grief.
I turn to Carlotta, ready to deliver a lecture about appropriate conversation topics in public spaces, but before I can get a single word out, the air around us explodes in a spray of brilliant blue stars that sparkle and dance with all the subtlety of a cosmic light show.
And just like that, a lion materializes in the middle of my bakery.
Not a house cat with delusions of grandeur, not a golden retriever having an identity crisis and wearing a bad Halloween costume, but a full-sized, magnificent, larger-than-life lion whose mane flows with the majesty of something that belongs on a nature documentary, and he happens to be standing between the pastry display and the coffee counter.
“GAAHHH!” Lyla Nell goes absolutely insane with delight. “MY LION!” she shrieks, clapping her tiny hands and bouncing in her high chair with the enthusiasm of a little girl who’s just discovered Christmas, Easter, and her birthday all rolled into one spectacular furry moment. “MINE! ALL MINE!”