Mom wiggles her shoulders while helping herself to a piece of pie as well. “Are the three of you still doing that thing?”
“What?” Everett looks my way with a mild sense of alarm. “No, Miranda, I can assure you, we have never done that thing.”
“Sure you have,” Carlotta says just as Noah comes back with a couple slices of cheesy goodness for me from Mangias, and he hands a slice of pepperoni to Everett as well.
Noah shoots him a wry smile. “Don’t ever say I’ve never done anything for you. Maybe if you get something in your stomach, you won’t be so cranky.”
Carlotta nods to my mother. “I caught Lot, Foxy, and Mr. Sexy all heading into the same bedroom last night.”
“That’s not what happened.” I wince because it’s sort of exactly what happened. After the fire I thought I’d spend the night at my mother’s B&B, but Everly, Evie, the daughter Everett and I share—his sixteen-year-old biological daughter—announced she was terrified of sleeping in a glorified haunted house, so both she and Carlotta, who also happened to live with me up until last week, decided they’d spend the night at Noah’s. “I simply went over to have dinner at Noah’s, and, well, Evie and I got to talking next to the fireplace. I was snuggling with Pancake and Waffles”—my sweet Himalayans cats—“and before I knew it, I was falling asleep. Everett came over at about ten and Noah offered to let us spend the night. And, Everett can’t sleep on the couch, the spare bedrooms were taken by Carlotta and Evie, and Noah wouldn’t dream of letting me sleep on the couch, so the two of them were helping me into his bedroom. Everett was going to stay with me—have I mentioned the bad back? And then Noah said, ‘Not in my bed,’ and then I laid down and passed out and I have no idea who slept where.”
A low guttural laugh emits from Carlotta. “There’s your next book title, Miranda. Tawdry Tales After Dark. Just follow Lot Lot around for a week and you should have a trilogy that promises to be fifty shades of delicious ready to go by Christmas.”
The two of them share a laugh just as a redhead with a glowing pale complexion and big brown eyes steps up.
Mom gasps. “Well, there you are! I was just about to tell my daughter you were looking for her.” Mom gives a wink my way. “Lottie, this is Autumn Frasier, a journalist from Better Homes and Calories. She’s a guest of mine at the B&B, and she’s doing a spotlight on the restaurants here at the street fair. Just this morning I was telling her about the fact you have the most tempting bakery in all of North America.”
“That might be going a bit too far.” I nod to the woman. “Lottie Lemon. Nice to meet you.”
“Autumn.” She offers me a friendly handshake. “Everything looks so delicious here. Where should I start?”
I’m about to point to a fried pickle when Lily knocks my arm away with her elbow.
“Have a piece of pecan pie.” Lily hands the woman a slice before she can agree to it. “Like all of Lottie’s desserts, it’s to die for.” Lily rolls her eyes at the thought before getting back to the crowd gathered before us. My desserts sort of are to die for, but that’s an entirely different matter.
Before I can ask Autumn a single question about her article or that questionably named magazine she works for, a loud whistle goes off at one of the booths across the way. I can’t help but make a face at the booth in question. It just so happens to belong to my next-door neighbor, Hannah Beckman—or better known as Too Hot to Handle Hannah. She’s infamous for the workout routines she conducts on the front lawn of her rental house that just so happen to take place at six in the morning. And considering that Noah, Everett, and I have been subjected to throngs of half-dressed women every morning for the last few months, I guess you could say I’m less than thrilled with her.
The large, hot pink banner above her booth reads Experience the Booty-ful Beckham Butt Lift today! The sign makes total sense, considering the fact she touts herself as a gluteus maximus specialist.
Hannah steps in front of her booth along with a blonde woman with bangs fringing her forehead. Both women appear to be somewhere in their mid-to-late twenties, and they