Baby Bundt Cake Confusion (Murder in the Mix Book 31) Unknown (good beach reads .txt) 📖

“We are home.” I land a kiss to her lips and feel just that.

Home.

But deep down, I know I won’t be settling in with Lemon until I’ve removed that bullseye from my back. I’m starting to think that mystery woman has her sights set on me and not in any sexual way.

My sister has always said that women would be my downfall.

She had no idea how right she’d be.

Lottie

Hennifer’s Fried Chicken just so happens to be holding a grand opening tonight out in Hollyhock, a neighboring town to Honey Hollow where Noah grew up with that beguiler of a mother and that swindler of a father. It’s a true blue miracle Noah turned out so normal.

“All right, Lottie”—Noah says, looking right at me with those lawn green eyes—“all you’ll have to do is take the chicken leg from under my neck with your chin and walk to the exit and back, clucking like a chicken.”

Suddenly, I’m having second thoughts on how normal he presumably is.

“No,” I say it flat while taking in a lungful of that fresh fried chicken scent. “I’m not interested in winning a bucket a week for the next solid year.” I groan, “Okay, so I’m a little bit interested, but I’m half-afraid I’d win. Face it, with my appetite, I’m pretty darn motivated. And if I do win, there goes any hope of ever fitting into my jeans again.”

“Win it for me, Lot,” Carlotta pleads. “We all know you’ll never wear your old jeans again. It was looking iffy before that sugar booger took up residency in your stomach. I’d join the chicken relay myself, but I’ve had a crick in my neck all day. It wasn’t easy holding my ear to the door all night. You and Foxy were awfully quiet in there.”

“That’s because we were sleeping.” I bat my lashes up at Everett and smile.

“You were sleeping.” Everett doesn’t miss a beat.

“He’s right, Lot.” Carlotta chuckles. “Some men don’t care if you’re sleeping, Lot, and Foxy is one of them.”

Everett tips his head back while looking at Noah as if he could kill him.

It’s well after six in the evening, it’s dark as pitch out, cold as a glacier, and there are wall-to-wall bodies inside of Jen Olsen’s newest restaurant. The place is brightly lit, the floors are comprised of dark wood, as are the tables, and it gives this place a cozy appeal.

Noah drove Carlotta, Evie, and me out here tonight, while Everett drove out this way on his own. He’s dead set on keeping me and everyone else he loves safe. And it pains me to know that safe means physically distancing ourselves from one another. Although, thankfully, we’re not doing that now. If the Canellis want to blow up Everett tonight, they’ll have to take about three hundred casualties with him.

As soon as we heard there would be free samples tonight, Evie put a call out to all of Honey Hollow High to show up. She shot out of Noah’s truck like a bullet, and I doubt we’ll see her again until it’s time to go home. Carlotta made a bunch of phone calls, too. In fact, I think I see Keelie and Bear across the room with their arms already buried in a bucket of chicken, and am I ever envious.

Loud country music twangs over the speakers, and according to the chatty conversations and riotous laughter, everyone here is having a good time.

Carlotta cranes her neck into the crowd. “Lot Lot, I see Cormack and Cressida here, and it looks as if they’re gearing up for the big relay. You’re not going to let them steal your chicken, are you?”

A thought comes to me. “No, I’m going to ensure them a win.” I pull Noah and Everett along and soon we’re face-to-face with the Featherheaded debutantes. Both blondes are wearing ridiculous couture dresses that should never be within a wing’s length of a place like this. With those pricey gowns, their faces done up with a tad too much frosting, and those killer heels they’ve pressed their feet into, they look as if they should be headed to the Met Ball and not the grand opening of some plucky, clucky chicken place.

Cormack falls over Noah’s body and Cressida does the same with Everett.

“Oh, won’t you save us, Essex,” Cressida whines. “Jen thinks it would be a blast to humiliate her old friends.”

Cormack is quick to nod. “All we asked is that she donate a bucket a week to the B&B. She knows we can’t resist her golden fried deliciousness. Hennifer’s fried chicken and biscuits are the only carbs we afford ourselves each week. Can’t she see the sacrifices we’re making for her? Why must she watch us run around with a neck full of greasy chicken?”

Carlotta belts out a hoot. “Oh hon, you’ve lost your one and only brain cell if you’ve forgotten you can afford to eat at this plucky, clucky place every day of the deep-fried year.”

Cormack waves her off. “We’re not interested in paying for things. We’re two highly influential people. Jen should be throwing buckets of dead birds at us. We could really do things for her brand.”

“Like ruin it,” I mutter. “So if you don’t want to pay for it, she’s right, you’ll have to win it.” I shrug her way. “But let’s face it, you don’t have the neck or the determination to pull this off. But I do. I’ll do it for you, too. I’ll win you a bucket a week for a whole juicy year, and the only thing I ask for in return is for you to give my mother back ownership of the B&B.”

They suck in a lungful of air while staring one another down for about three seconds.

“We’ll do it!” the two of them chime in unison.

“They’ll do it!” I give a little hop and my belly reminds me of why intentionally throwing myself off balance isn’t a good idea.

Turns out, it’s a three person