Sneak Peek!
Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes
Book Description:
Chapter 1
The Killer
Twelve years ago—Vermont State Penitentiary…
The cuffs bite into my wrists as they lead me down the corridor, and with each step echoing off the cinderblock walls, it feels like a countdown to hell.
The fluorescent lights buzz above me. They flicker away as if they’re struggling to stay alive in this desolate place, just like everyone else.
A door clangs open in front of me and I pause at the threshold and scan my new home for the next twelve years.
Cold concrete. A steel toilet. A mattress thinner than my patience.
The entire place reeks of bleach, rot, and broken lives—my broken life, to be specific.
I shake my head at the mess.
Welcome home, indeed.
The guard nudges me forward. I don’t bother to look at him. I don’t look at anyone. I stare straight ahead and walk into the box they’ve carved out for me as if I’m not afraid—because I’m not. Not of this place. Not anymore.
I’ve already lived through the worst part.
The door slams shut behind me with a finality that reverberates in my bones. I head over and sit on the edge of the cot and rest my hands in my lap, still red from the cuffs.
I’m still shaking, but not from fear, from fury.
I trace my fingers over the calluses forming on my palms, proof of the days I’ve spent trying to scrub away the betrayal like it’s something that can be wiped clean with enough steel wool and soap.
But it won’t wash off.
They lied. They used me. Set me up so cleanly it looked like I wrapped the ribbon myself. And the world applauded while I burned. The trial. The sentence. The mugshot they blasted on every news channel. With my hair tucked back and my eyes looking hollow, I was the face of the fall girl.
I didn’t say a word. Not one. Not even when I had the chance.
Because I knew something no one else did.
This wasn’t the end.
They might be free now. Smiling. Working the room with their cheap charm and whiskey-coated lies. They might think they got away with it. That they washed their hands of me as if I was a stain to be rinsed down the drain with the rest of their messes.
But they’re wrong.
I’m not gone. I’m not broken. And I’m sure as heck not done.
Let them enjoy their freedom. Let them toast to their cleverness while clinking glasses in some darkened bar, so very smug and untouchable. Let them think they won.
Because I’ve got time.
Years, maybe. But I’ll count every day like a prayer.
They made a mistake. A big one.
They left me breathing.
And I don’t forget.
I close my eyes and picture their face—so polished, so smug. I remember the sound of their voice the last time they spoke to me. The lie dressed in a designer Italian suit. The betrayal dipped in sugar, which they offered so very easily.
I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what I have to become to do it.
One day, I’ll walk out of here.
And when I do?
They’ll pay. Every last filthy debt.
Justice might wear a blindfold.
But I don’t.
Chapter 2
Lottie
“Lemon, bed rest was the doctor’s orders. I really think you should adhere to that until the babies arrive.”
I take a defiant bite of my shamrock-shaped shortbread cookie, letting the buttery crumbs fall where they may—which, given the size of my belly, means straight onto what used to be my lap.
Tonight, the Honey Hollow Community Center has been transformed all around us from its usual bingo-hall blandness into a glittering emerald wonderland.
Green streamers twist overhead, weaving between newly installed crystal chandeliers that reflect tiny rainbows across every surface. The dark hardwood floors gleam as does the green glittery décor strewn across all of the tables which happen to be dressed in white linen. The renovation committee really outdid themselves—it’s less community center, more country club now.
The lighting is low, the Irish-inspired music is loud, and the scent of my sugar sweet treats permeates the air with just the right amount of deliciousness.
“And I did adhere to bed rest,” I say a touch too loud over the music so Everett can hear me.
Essex Everett Baxter is one heck of a looker—dark hair, bright blue eyes, a body that can stop a bullet, and it’s near impossible to garner a smile from him. At any given time, there are at least ten women craning their necks to get a better look at him. And well, women have been known to drop to their knees in adoration of him in public establishments.
He was a playboy before he met me and now, I’m the only star in his sky. I know that for a fact because he just so happened to say those very words to me last night. Everett always knows the exact words to say to melt me.
I nod his way. “In fact, I was on bed rest for three whole days just the way that Dr. Barnette insisted. But it happens to be day four and I have an event to cater. And before you go there, yes, I do have a staff and they’re all here in force, but I kind of wanted to get in on the redheaded fun, too.” I nod around at the room full of crimson glory as if affirming my decision.
The Redhead Roundup: An Auburn Affair is in full swing this evening. They meet up once a year around St. Patrick’s Day, and this time they’ve chosen our cozy little town of Honey Hollow, Vermont, to kick off their festivities.
The bustling convention has taken over the community center, and not only is there an abundance of redheaded beauties and cuties, but by the looks of the green beer and sea of green accoutrements, St. Patrick’s Day is being celebrated a little early as well.
Mayor Nash has already invited them all to participate in the big St. Patrick’s Day parade coming up in just under a week’s time, and I can’t wait for that, too, because it just so happens to take place right in front of my bakery.
Honey Hollow never misses a chance for a parade—we once held one when a woman’s sourdough starter survived for a year. In our defense, it produced really good sourdough that not even I could compete with. My stomach rumbles just thinking about it.
I pat my enormous belly with the memory as the twins each deliver a sharp kick that would make an Irish step dancer proud.
My false little labor scare three days ago had both Everett and Noah hovering over me like a couple of nervous honeybees. Okay, so the scare wasn’t so little—I may have believed that I was going into full-blown birthing mode. But apparently, that wasn’t the case. It was just a bout of some seriously earth-shattering, but not uterine-shattering, Braxton Hicks contractions.
“That’s telling him, Lot.” Noah pulls me in by the waist, or what little waist I have left. Okay, so I have no waist. I’m nine months pregnant with twins—really big twins (think toddlers).
Noah Corbin Fox is a looker, too, with his dark hair that turns red at the tips, verdant green eyes, and dimples so deep you could take a nap in them. We share a daughter, Lyla Nell, who is set to turn two next week. Noah and I were off and on—and even married more times than I can count. Suffice it to say, we’re complicated. But I’m married to Everett now—and well, that only seemed to complicate things even more. It’s a long and sordid story.
“In fact, I’ve got an idea.” Noah nods to Everett. “Why don’t you go on bed rest until the babies arrive? I’ll wine and dine Lottie and make sure she has a ball without you. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Very funny.” Everett takes a moment to properly glare at Noah for even going there. “I seem to recall you overreacting when you thought her water broke last month.”
“That was different.” Noah ticks his head at the memory. “I didn’t realize she was holding an actual water bottle upside down.”
“Over my pants,” I clarify.
Heck, even I thought I broke my water that day.
“Nevertheless—” Everett’s chest expands as he looks my way. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you until the babies arrive—at least while I’m at home from the courthouse.”
“I’d better keep an eye on her instead,” Noah says. “I’ve got a clear schedule tomorrow morning.”
“Perfect,” Everett says. “I’ll free up my afternoon.”
I shake my head. “You two do realize that arguing over who gets to babysit me is completely unnecessary, right? I am a fully functioning adult,” I say as I snatch another cookie from the dessert table, another green shamrock with lots of pink and green sprinkles. “I mean, sure, I may have had an episode the other day that had all the theatrics of a primetime medical drama, but turns out, it was just a silly Braxton Hicks extravaganza. I had them all the time with Lyla Nell. It was no big deal.”
“Lemon.” Everett inches his head back a notch. “You believed you were about to eject those kids ‘like two torpedo missiles’—and those were your exact words.”
“And that belief was wrong,” I’m quick to point out. “So, case closed, Judge Baxter.”
It’s true. Everett is a prominent judge down in Ashford County with far more important things to do than keep an eye on me while I stuff my face with cookies—and pie, and pizza, and everything that every restaurant on Main Street has to offer.
And well, Noah has a pretty important job down in Ashford, too, working for the Ashford Sheriff’s Department as their lead homicide detective.
Suffice it to say, the rash of homicides in Honey Hollow has kept him busy these past few years. And me busy by proxy since I always seem to find myself tangled up in them—and so do my sweet treats.
That wily little white fox I saw a few days ago comes to mind. It was more of a chihuahua with giant six-inch tall ears that stick straight up and a cute little beak-like face than it was your traditional fox, but despite the fact, judging by the way it appeared and disappeared in a spray of blue and pink stars let me know that it was well past its prime. And we all know what happens when those long-gone creatures—human or of the furry variety—make an appearance in Honey Hollow.
I look out at the crowd once again and wonder which one of these redheads isn’t going to make it to that upcoming four-leaf clover-shaped day.
“Look, Everett”—Noah says, snapping up a cookie for both himself and me—“we’re both here, we’re both responsible adults, and we both know Lottie isn’t going to listen to reason, so you might as well grab a cookie and try to enjoy yourself. I say we divide and conquer. Obviously, you get the night shift, so I’ll spend my days with Lot.”
Everett growls in response and a sigh escapes me.
“Boys, please.” A laugh snorts from me, which sets off another round of baby acrobatics. “There’s enough of my swollen ankles and stretch marks to go around.”
True as gospel.
A loud whoop goes off and the laughter and the merriment in the community center only seems to rachet up a couple more wild notches.
The air smells divine—a mixture of buttery pastries, whiskey-soaked desserts, and the cinnamon-apple tea I’ve been downing by the gallon. The dessert tables are the centerpiece of the refreshment area, which feature more than a few Irish-themed treats, such as Bailey’s cheesecake bites topped with candied shamrocks, whiskey-glazed donuts with green sprinkles, Bailey’s brownie bites, and my pièce de résistance—mini Irish apple cakes drizzled with caramel whiskey sauce. Every confection either features a tiny fondant shamrock or has been dyed an alarming shade of green.
So far, March is shaping up to be pretty monumental. Not only has every redhead in Vermont (and possibly the country) descended on Honey Hollow to kick off the St. Patrick’s Day festivities—which will culminate in a parade for the ages—but my sweet baby girl Lyla Nell is turning two.
That’s huge.
Plus, my birthday happens to be the very same day, but honestly, I couldn’t care less. When you’re about to push two human beings out of your body, celebrating another trip around the sun seems rather inconsequential.
“Besides”—I say, moving along and snapping up a whiskey-glazed donut then thinking better of it and handing it to Everett before snapping up another cookie instead—“the doctor said light activity was fine,” I remind them. “This is me, being lightly active.”
My eyes drift back to that pile of whiskey-glazed donuts. I’ve already eaten six back at the bakery. And since I am cooking the glaze, I’m sure the tiny bit of whiskey that gets splashed into the mix has lost all of its nefarious powers. Besides, they really do taste divine.
Carlotta pops up, looking every bit like my doppelgänger—same honey blonde hair with touches of gray, same hazel eyes that are in serious need of some bifocals, which she refuses to don, far more wrinkles, and a far different figure considering she’s wearing an emerald green dress that I would die to fit into. And ironically, that dress was culled from my closet.
Carlotta is my biological mother who rematerialized in my life a few years back—just in time to claim her inheritance. Typical. She’s sarcastic, cunning, and all around a prickly cactus of a person who just so happens to live with Everett and me. It’s a long and sordid story.
“There she goes,” she sings as she watches me wolf down another shamrock sugar cookie. “Stuffing her face with cookies. Just what the doctor ordered. Where can I get me a doctor like that?”
Noah shakes his head. “You need to get knocked up first.”
Carlotta ticks her head to the side wistfully. “I’m afraid my baby-making days are over, Foxy. And don’t think I’m not sorry about it. I hear babies are big business these days. And to think I gave Lot away for free.”
It’s true. I ended up on the floor of the Honey Hollow Fire Department while my sister Charlie had the misfortune of actually being raised by Carlotta. All things considered, I got off pretty easy.
“Hear that, Lot?” She taps her elbow to mine. “If you change your mind about keeping the little yippers, you can make a mint—as in double the dineros! I’ve got connections if you want to make a deal.”
“Sorry to dash your dinero dreams, but I’m keeping them,” I tell her as I snap up yet another cookie—a caramel turtle wonder. “And I’m keeping the cookie train going, too. It’s medicinal. The babies demanded it—telepathically, of course.”
“That’s funny.” Noah tips his head my way. “The babies also telepathically demanded you stay home last week when we wanted to go fishing.”
I cringe a little at the memory. Okay, so it was me who didn’t feel like sitting next to a bucket of wiggly worms.
“Pregnancy telepathy is very specific,” I tell him. “And highly accurate.” I crane my neck into the crowd. “Have you ever seen so many people with glorious red manes in one room before?”
“Nope,” Carlotta is the first to answer. “And that’s exactly why I don’t trust this night,” she mutters while staring at the crowd as if they’re all about to burst into flames. “I just know this event is going to be trouble. It’s unnatural for this many gingers to be in one place at one time. It’s like a fiery-haired omen. I say we pack it up, burn some sage, and call it a night.”
“Carlotta,” I hiss. “Would you keep it down? These are nice people. And I hate for anyone to hear you ranting and raving about fiery-haired omens and burning sage, of all things. We don’t dabble in witchcraft.”
“Says the wickedest witch of them all,” she snips back.
I’ll admit, my hormones may have earned me that title as of late, but again I’m carrying twins. Who could blame me for a little emotional outburst here and there? And well, everywhere.
A couple of redheaded women stride by and give us the stink eye as if they’ve heard the entire conversation.
“See that?” Carlotta harps in their wake. “They look as if they’re ready to hang you at high noon, little yippers and all. Hate to break it to you, Lot, but I’m never wrong about these things. We’ve had a killer show up at almost every event in this town, and now you want to tell me a whole convention hall full of redheads isn’t going to end in murder? I call bull-hockey.”
Noah ticks his head. “She’s got a point.”
“I’m not saying a word.” Everett straightens as he gives a quick glance around. “But as long as you two don’t see a ghost, we might be in the clear. Big might.”
“Well, I don’t see a ghost,” I’m quick to tell him. “And I refuse to dwell on the Grim Reaper for no good reason. For once, I’d like to have a crime-free celebration.” I nod up at the ceiling as if trying to make a pact with the universe. “Just one event where nobody ends up in cuffs or a body bag.”
Carlotta snorts. “And just like that, you jinxed it.”
Noah nods. “I one hundred percent agree.”
“Noah.” I swat him without hesitation.
“I’m just saying”—he offers up a shrug—“I might as well go ahead and put caution tape around the perimeter now.”
Everett leans in. “I wouldn’t have said that, Lemon.”
“But you were thinking it.” Noah nods his way and Everett presses his lips tight in response.
“You’re both hilarious,” I grunt just as a flash of a familiar redhead catches my eye from across the room.
Venus Finnigan waves enthusiastically with her husband Sean by her side with his red hair even more vibrant in this dim light, and I give a quick wave back.
They’re the reason I’m here. Venus was kind enough to ask me to cater alongside of her own bakery, and between her charm and my inability to say no to anyone, here I am, nine months pregnant and on my feet—that I can’t actually see.
Venus and Sean melt back into the crowd and I spot my mother and my sister Meg. And oddly enough, the two of them look as if they’re arguing about something. I bet it has to do with the baby.
Meg just had a sweet baby girl named Piper and my mother has been watching the baby now and again while Meg checks on the strip club where she works. Meg is the one who teaches the girls their money-making moves without actually making much money herself.
Generally, my mother and Meg get along just fine, but I bet Meg caught my mother doing something goofy like the time she cut a hole in her bra and stuck the baby bottle through it so she could feel as if she was nursing. I caught her doing that once with Lyla Nell and about had a heart attack and committed matricide all in the same afternoon.
I’m about to mosey in their direction when the sight of an elegant older woman stops me in my tracks.
“Oh my goodness,” I whisper, grabbing Everett’s arm with a death grip.
“What is it, Lemon?” Everett is instantly alert—and well, instantly in panic mode, too. “Contractions?”
“The hospital bag is already in the car,” Noah pants in a panic himself, already reaching for his keys.
“No, it’s not that,” I say. “Look who just walked in.”
The crowd parts just enough to reveal none other than Eliza Baxter, Everett’s mother. Her silver-streaked dark hair catches the light as she scans the room with laser precision. Her eyes lock onto an older, handsome gentleman standing nearby speaking to a crowd rapt at attention. And that cold look she’s giving him seems to cause the temperature in the community center to drop ten degrees.
Without warning, the lights cut out and the entire room is plunged into darkness.
A few shrill screams go off, along with the illumination of a few cell phones just as the lights come back.
And to my surprise, I find a cute little white fox sitting on my belly with freakishly tall ears spiked into the air. It belts out a few quick barks before disappearing in a vat of pink and blue stars.
Both Carlotta and I yelp in response.
“What is it, Lemon?” Everett asks while pulling me in.
“It was that tiny little ghost of a fox,” I say. “It was just here.” I pat my belly in the exact same spot. “But now it’s gone.”
“It might be gone”—Everett says as he scours the room—“but I have a feeling the killer has arrived.”
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****