Pecan Pie Predicament (Murder in the Mix #27) - Addison Moore Page 0,2

cookie won’t have to wonder who its daddy is.

I glance to Noah and Everett, who are still actively engaged in a rather animated conversation.

Noah Fox has dark hair that turns red at the tips in the sun, eyes as green as a lime, and dimples deep enough to get lost in. He’s the lead homicide detective down in Ashford County and has been breaking hearts ever since he set foot in Honey Hollow—namely mine. We were going strong until his wife popped up out of the blue. I had no idea he was married, or separated as it were, but that little matrimonial detail landed us on a rocky trajectory.

Everett and Noah head back this way, both with a determined look on their faces.

“Essex,” Lily snips. “Please explain to your wife that the name of the bakery game is sweet treats, not pickled feet.”

“I’m not hocking pickled feet,” I say. Although, come to think of it, my shoes feel two sizes too small this afternoon. Do feet grow once you’re pregnant? There is still so much I don’t know about this whole motherhood deal—this whole growing a life inside of me deal. I am, however, quite familiar with the restroom, thanks to my newly hyperactive bladder and my incessant urge to have a second look at my breakfast. But no matter how nauseous I seem to get, my appetite is still going strong.

I shoot Lily a look of annoyance. “And would you stop calling him Essex? Every time you do that I feel like you’re posturing.” More like smashing the fact she’s previously slept with my husband right into my face like a coconut cream pie.

Even though Essex is Everett’s first name, he prefers to go by his middle name, Everett. The only women I’ve ever heard call him by his proper moniker are women with whom he’s danced in the sheets. It’s sort of a naughty door prize. Of course, his mother and sister are the exceptions to that coital rule. And even though I more than qualify to call him Essex all I like, I still refer to him by the name I’ve grown accustomed to.

“Sorry, Lot.” Lily shrugs as she slices up another pecan pie. “I’ve garnered the right to shout Essex from the rooftops, and so have half of the women in Vermont. You’ve never mentioned anything about it bothering you before. I’m guessing it’s that baby in your belly turning you into a moody monster.” A crowd steps up and Lily gets straight to selling pecan pies by the slice. Good thing, too, because I was getting tempted to do a little slicing myself, and my pies had nothing to do with it.

Okay, so she’s right. I’ve been more than a little moody lately.

Noah chuckles. “You can give me some fried pickles, Lottie.”

Everett grunts, “See that, Lemon? Had you chosen Noah, you would have ended up with a mooch.” His lips curve at the tips.

Everett rarely calls me anything but Lemon, and I don’t mind one bit. Everett is dangerously handsome. It’s a known fact the baristas the world over have dubbed him Mr. Sexy, and with good reason. Everett’s face alone has the power to disarm nuclear codes. He’s built like a linebacker and hardly ever smiles. He’s a lean, mean, serious machine who happens to rule the roost as a presiding judge down at the Ashford County Courthouse. Both Noah and Everett are somewhere in their mid-thirties, and I’m barreling toward thirty myself.

About six different women crane their necks in this direction to get a better look at the two handsome studs before me, and suddenly the booth is bustling with females. Let’s hope they’ve got a hankering for something other than Noah and Everett.

Lily tosses a glance my way. “Lottie, we’ll need more pecan pies soon. And try not to eat the inventory this time.”

Noah leans in. “Don’t worry, Lot. I’ll never judge you for having a healthy appetite. I’ll be your eating buddy. Mangias has a booth across the street. Do you want anything?”

“Ohh, a slice of pizza, extra cheese, please. On second thought, I’d better make that a couple of slices. The baby is hungry, too.”

Lily chortles as she passes us by. “She’ll add the frosting herself.”

She’s not wrong. But who cares? There’s nothing as satisfying as a little vanilla frosting along the crust.

“Lemon.” Everett steps in close just as a tall, beefy man wearing a red tank top steps up to the booth and swipes a plate of pecan