Chapter 20
LOTTIE
As soon as things wrap up at the raunchy ranch, the four of us head over to Mangia’s.
No sooner do we park out in front of Honey Hollow’s own premier Italian restaurant than the thick aroma of simmering marinara and fresh basil drifts into the street like an invitation.
The scent of oregano and garlic mingles with something deeper—the promise of real parmesan and butter and everything that makes life worth living.
It’s the kind of smell that makes your mouth water before you even step through the door, and I’m already mentally forgiving Carlotta for whatever chaos she’s about to cause over dinner.
It’s always best to stay one step ahead with her.
The restaurant is the best little Italian place this side of Sicily, and it just happens to be right across the street from my bakery, which makes it both convenient and dangerous for my waistline.
Tonight, though, I’m too mentally exhausted from watching the husbands pose shirtless for a murder suspect to worry about carbohydrate consumption.
Okay, so I shouldn’t call them that, but let’s face it, the husbands has a ring to it, and even though I’m only still married to one, it sort of gets the point across.
“Mom texted to let us know all three kids are finally sleeping, which means they’ll be wide awake and ready to party the moment we walk through the front door,” I tell Noah and Everett. “It’s like they have supernatural radar for parental exhaustion.”
Carlotta snorts. “Those kids don’t sleep—they just power down to conserve energy for their next attack.”
“I hate it when you’re right,” I tell her.
Everett pauses before we head inside as he takes a gander at something down the street.
“Did you see the construction next door?” Everett asks, gesturing toward what appears to be some kind of renovation project happening in the space adjacent to Mangia’s and directly across from the Cutie Pie.
I blink at the obvious signs of destruction—scaffolding, plastic sheeting, contractor trucks—that I’ve somehow completely missed despite the fact I’ve been staring out of my bakery window all week.
“Wow, I didn’t even notice,” I admit, which suggests my observational skills are either seriously compromised or I’ve been too focused on murder investigations to pay attention to local business development.
“Looks snazzy, whatever it is,” Noah points out.
“Probably another yoga studio,” I mutter. “Because Honey Hollow has reached the point where we have more places to practice downward dog than we have actual dogs.”
“Maybe we should get a dog,” Everett teases as he gives my ribs a tweak. “A whole litter of puppies to add to the chaos.”
“Don’t you dare even joke like that,” I say, giving his ribs a pinch right back.
Carlotta shakes her head. “You sure don’t need a dog, Lot. Between Noah and Everett, you’ve already adopted two handsome strays who keep following you home.”
Both Noah and Everett shoot her a look, but neither denies anything she’s said.
We step into Mangia’s, and we’re immediately wrapped in a warm embrace of Sinatra, garlic bread, and the scent of a wood-fired pizza just coming out of the oven.
Dark wood tables are topped with checkered tablecloths, wine bottles filled with spring daffodils serve as centerpieces, and the menu boards feature Easter-themed pasta specials written in cheerful pastel chalk.
“There’s my sexy dog!” Carlotta’s voice carries across the restaurant as she spots Mayor Nash settling into a table near our usual spot in the back.
And just like that, Lenny materializes beside her in a spray of baby blue stars. “Did she just call me a dog? I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.”
“Come on, Fur Face,” Carlotta continues. “I want you to meet my main squeeze—when I’m not squeezing you, that is.”
“Your dating life should come with a user manual,” Lenny says with a chuckle. “But hey, I’m just here for the entertainment.”
“Carlotta,” I whisper as we approach the tables. “Try not to out yourself to the mayor.”
Mayor Nash knows absolutely nothing about our transmundane state, and I’d like to keep it that way. The man has enough challenges running a small Vermont town without having to worry about whether his fiancée is dating a long-dead lion on the side.
Carlotta plops down and launches straight into advising Mayor Nash on “important civic matters”—like which residents need to stop wearing leggings in public and whose yard décor should be classified as a misdemeanor. The poor man has no idea he’s competing for attention with a supernatural big cat.
No sooner do we take a seat than we’re brought a basket of hot garlic breadsticks sprinkled with parmesan cheese, and I dive in with the kind of urgency only carbs can command.
Everett nods to the waitress. “We’ll take a pepperoni pizza, a half sheet of lasagna, and the chicken parmigiana,” he tells her, because he knows exactly what comfort food is required after the evening we’ve had.
She takes off to fetch the left side of the menu, and Noah adjusts his shirt with a touch of relief. “I’ve never been so happy to have my clothes on again.”
“Please,” I tell him. “Now women all over Honey Hollow are going to line up wanting to breed with both of you,” I point out, taking another breadstick because garlic bread fixes everything, including the mental image of Noah and Everett posing with farm equipment.
Noah waggles his eyebrows at the mention of his unexpected marketable skills. “My services are available twenty-four seven for you, Lot. In fact, we can start tonight if you like. I’ll give you the Wednesday night special.”
A laugh bubbles from me—oddly not from Everett. “You know what’s special?” I say directly to Noah. “Eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. So no, I’m not interested in your Wednesday night special if it comes with a baby at the end of nine months.”
Everett ticks his head. “Don’t take the shutdown too hard, Noah. She knows the Thursday deluxe package is superior.” He winks my way.
“I might have to shut you down, too,” I tell him. “If I keep having your babies, I may never sleep again.”
“Speaking of children,” Everett says, reaching for his own breadstick, “Easter Sunday is this weekend. Are you ready?”
“Not quite,” I confess. “I’m going to spend the next few days putting together Easter baskets,” I say, mentally calculating how much chocolate I’ll need to purchase to properly celebrate the resurrection through sugar consumption. “And that includes baskets for Ava and Olivia, too.”
Everett’s expression softens at the mention of his twin daughters. “They’re planning to be at the Hop ’Til You Drop Easter Festival on Sunday. It’ll be great to see them.”
Noah nods. “Rumor has it, there’s going to be a hundred-dollar golden egg hidden somewhere on the festival grounds.”
“That’s right. There will be!” Mayor Nash pipes up from the next table, having overheard our conversation despite being distracted by Carlotta’s animated discussion about who’s secretly dating whom in town and which couples she predicts will crash and burn before Memorial Day.
“What’s the age limit on the egg hunt?” I ask, only half-teasing.
“There isn’t one,” Mayor Nash replies with a grin. “May the best hunter win.”
We all share a quick laugh at the mental image of grown adults diving through bushes in pursuit of golden eggs.
“Knowing Carlotta, she’ll come up with the prize,” I say. “And if I get in her way, I’ll have another black eye.”
“Hey now,” Carlotta protests. “That black eye was an accident of momentum and poor spatial awareness. This time it would be intentional. Totally different.”
Everett growls her way.
“Hold your horses, Sexy. I only assault family members from chandeliers on Tuesdays. Your wife is safe until next week.”
Our food arrives with the perfect timing of Italian restaurants that have mastered the art of comfort and carbs.
The pizza is exactly what my soul needs—thick crust swimming in pepperoni and enough cheese to trigger a dairy warning.
The lasagna looks like it was constructed by architects who specialize in edible masterpieces.
Carlotta keeps firing quips about how Foxy and Sexy should really be photographed under better lighting— “preferably shirtless and pantless, preferably now”—while Lenny appears to be finishing off Mayor Nash’s chicken marsala.
“I’m eating awfully fast tonight,” Mayor Nash muses to himself with a look of confusion. “Geez, I must be inhaling my food. I don’t even remember taking half these bites.”
Lenny pauses mid-supernatural dining. “For someone who is engaged to a woman like Carlotta, the man is more observant than I gave him credit for.”
Though thankfully not observant enough to realize his dinner is being consumed by a ghost.
“Lemon, how is the case going?” Everett asks before shoving half a slice of pepperoni pizza into his mouth. I probably shouldn’t have found that as seductive as I just did. Heck, anything this man does is seductive. Everett turns to Noah. “Or should I ask the detective at the table?”
Noah chugs down half his beer. “Fine. I give up. Tell us what you’ve got, Detective Lemon.”
Noah and I share a laugh. Everett growls.
I take a sip of my iced tea and organize my thoughts, because we’ve gathered enough information to either solve this murder or start our own chocolate empire with questionable business practices.
“Well,” I begin, “Bunny has basically declared war on the family business. She’s been telling her wellness clients to avoid all Whitmore products, wrote a book, Death in a Designer Wrapper, and managed to drop their sales by thirty percent.”
“Ouch.” Noah winces.
Everett lifts a brow. “Keep her away from the bakery, Lemon.”