Page 38 of A Whisker in the Night

A heaping helping of justice would be nice, too.

Chapter 24

The view from the patio of the Country Cottage Café is showing off this evening as if it were about to be featured in a travel magazine.

From here, you get a front-row seat to the Atlantic’s evening show, close enough to hear the waves but far enough that no one gets an unexpected saltwater shower.

String lights twinkle overhead as if they were trying to compete with the stars, and the scent of fresh-baked sourdough is doing battle with the ocean breeze. Down on the sand, families are scattered across the cove like confetti. Kids armed with buckets of seawater chase each other while their parents get lost in a good book.

Jasper and Leo have gone full beach mode, trading their badges for T-shirts and cargo shorts while tossing a football back and forth and participating in some serious male bonding.

I’m trying not to stare too hard at my husband, but this hormonal fire in me is real, and watching him catch a football with that tan body isn’t helping matters.

Shameless peacocks,Fish muses from her prime viewing spot on the next seat over, though I notice she hasn’t taken her eyes off their game either.

Less criticism, more running,Sherlock says as he bounds past us as if that was a flying piece of bacon instead of a football, although I suppose it’s the same difference.

Fish and Jellybean dart on after him, as do Cinnamon and Gatsby, and soon all five of them are racing back and forth along the cove.

Meanwhile, Emmie and I are holding court at our favorite patio table, demolishing a plate of her homemade peanut butter chocolate eggs while swooning over the bouquet of pink peonies before us.

“You know, Emmie, these eggs are so good I’m considering writing them into my will,” I say, only half-teasing. The baby gives an enthusiastic kick of approval as I reach for another one. “These chocolate peanut butter eggs are a serious hit,” I tell her, already eyeing my next pastel victim. “I’ve already considered hoarding them in my purse like some sort of dessert squirrel—a very pregnant one at that.”

“No need to hoard.” Emmie laughs, fighting a losing battle with her wind-tossed hair before quickly securing it into a ponytail. “I made extra, don’t you worry. Now spill. What’s this I heard about a catastrophe of side dish proportions at Westoff Farms? Grady and Nessa mentioned you went there and I’ve been dying to know what happened for the last few hours.”

I groan as I lean back in my chair. “Where do I even start? My mother and Georgie both wanted a shot at that thousand-dollar prize. So my mother entered with a broccoli salad that was surprisingly to die for and Georgie entered what is now her infamous Jell-O surprise casserole into the competition.”

Emmie gasps. “You mean the one with lime Jell-O, cottage cheese, crushed potato chips, and marshmallows?”

“How did you know?” I lean back to better inspect my bestie.

“Are you kidding? Georgie makes it at least once a month in an effort to try to get me to put it on my menu. I swear, thatgreen lobster crawled into the café on its own a few times, too.” She shudders hard. “The staff and I all agreed it was a war crime. I can’t believe she took it out in public.”

“Oh, she did,” I assure her. “And it’s just as terrifying as you remember. But the real catastrophe came when Georgie brought out that hummingbird feeder hat-like contraption. The one with the daisies and the glass shield?”

“Ooh, I’ve seen those all over the internet,” she says, seemingly genuinely interested. “Wait. Don’t tell me she donned that thing at the competition?”

“She did,” I confirm. “And apparently, bees are big fans of lime Jell-O and daisies. Chaos ensued. People screamed. Potato salads flew everywhere. Sherlock thinks it was the best day of his life. And it might have been. Oh, and I ran into Hammie Mae again while I was there,” I say with delight. “Honestly, she was the bright spot in the whole afternoon.” Although I wince a little as that conversation we had comes back to me. “You should hear the wild things she was saying about her birthing plan.”

“Ooh, I do want to hear,” she says, snapping up another pastel egg. “My birthing plan consists of getting to the hospital before I actually give birth.”

“That sounds reasonable.” I nod. “But Hammie Mae’s birthing plan is less reasonable and more of a Broadway production,” I tell her. “The woman is importing bamboo sheets from Japan, hiring a trio of violinists to play Mozart, and has a doula who will apparently scatter rose petals like she’s officiating a royal wedding.”

Emmie’s mouth falls open at the thought. “You’re kidding.”

I shake my head. “And that’s not all. She’s having an artist paint the skyline at the exact moment of birth. Oh, and she’s convinced the baby’s intelligence will skyrocket thanks to the organic essential oils woven and crystal wreaths she’ll havepresent. Wait? Did I get that mixed up?” I shrug because I doubt it matters.

“Wow.” Emmie inches her head back, stunned, because clearly, I’ve given her a lot to consider. “I can’t decide if I want to laugh or cry.”

“Both are valid reactions,” I assure her, just as Jasper and Leo jog up from the beach, looking as if they’ve been rolling in a sandbox—a delicious powdered sugar sandbox.

Why am I suddenly craving powdered donuts?

Jasper leans down to kiss my cheek, and I get a whiff of his spiced cologne mingling with the salty air, and my hormones begin to buzz twice as hard.

Would it be rude to zip him back to our cottage and have my way with him?

Leo laughs hard and I shoot him a look.

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