Page 18 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

The world tilts sideways.

Pain explodes across my back as I land hard on my spine with a teeth-rattling thud.

My cell phone jumps out of my pocket and skitters across the room like a frightened mouse, coming to rest well underneath the refrigerator.

I try to move and all I can do is groan.

Pain sears through my spine like a white-hot knife.

I can’t move.

Things just got worse.

LOTTIE

The scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee hits me the moment I push through the door of the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery with my arms full of squirming toddler and a belly full of more of the same.

Lyla Nell has decided that walking is for peasants today. Lucky for her, my enormous belly doubles as a shelf—or in this case, a seat.

The bakery is decked out to the nines in St. Patrick’s Day glory with shamrock garland draped every which way, cutouts of leprechauns dancing along the walls, and green-frosted everything in the display case. The place hums with morning chatter and the hiss of the espresso machine.

The crowd of customers is thick and so is that aforementioned heavenly scent of coffee.

The bakery happens to be conjoined with the Honey Pot Diner, the restaurant that I own along with my sister Charlie. The Honey Pot is cute and cozy and even has a life-size resin oak tree that acts as the centerpiece. In fact, its branches spread out from the Honey Pot and across its ceilingandmine, connecting both businesses like a botanical umbilical cord. Each branch is wrapped in magical twinkle lights, with green ones addedfor this shamrock-shaped season. Right now, the effect is part enchanted forest, part Irish pub fever dream.

I spot my mother at a table near the window, surrounded by a small army of caramel-haired females. My sister Lainey is there with her girls—rambunctious two-and-a-half-year-old Josie and tiny Mimi, or as her birth certificate reads, Miranda Lottie Donovan, hardly a month old and already commanding attention like a seasoned Donovan diva.

Carlotta strides in next to me and cups her hands around her mouth. “Listen up, folks! Breaking news—Lot Lot’s hoity-toity Murder-in-Law will be going up the river soon enough! But rest assured, she’ll be going to the big house in style!”

I suck in a quick breath just as Carlotta jumps out of swatting range.

She turns to me with a wicked grin. “Hey, Lot Lot, do they make designer jumpsuits for the criminally fabulous? Orange Chanel, perhaps? Prison-yard Prada?”

A titter of nervous laughter circles the room.

“Very funny,” I snarl her way just as my mother comes over and wrestles Lyla Nell right out of my arms—or from off my belly as it were. “Keep it up, Carlotta, and I’ll need bail money myself.”

“Oh, Lottie, don’t engage,” my mother says as she kisses Lyla Nell on the forehead. “And please stop picking Lyla Nell up. She’s a very big girl and she has two perfectly good legs. Yes, you do!” She rubs her nose to Lyla Nell’s and the two of them break out in giggles. “Who is Glam Glam’s little doll?”

“Glam Glam,” Josie shouts from her high chair with a deeply affronted look on her face.

“Oh, you know I’ve got more than one,” my mother trills as she lands Lyla Nell in a waiting high chair of her own. “After all, I’m a professional grandma now. I’ve got this.” She gestures to the spread before them—cinnamon rolls the size of salad platesand shamrock lattes complete with green foam art. That was my idea. Come to think of it, all of it was my idea.

“Morning, Lottie,” Lainey sings and I do my best to give her a quick hug—albeit awkward and more of a chokehold while she bounces little Mimi against her shoulder. “Mom said you know all about Meg’s Vegas trip? I am definitely going. Please tell me you’re going, too!”

I pinch off a bite of her cinnamon roll—so soft and gooey. “You already know the answer to that. And I can’t believeyou’regoing. You’re insane.”

Mom gags. “Well, if I wasn’t going before, I am now.” She tosses her hands in the air. “I volunteer to babysit in the hotel—with lots of room service, of course.”

Lainey gasps. “Hear that, Lottie? We’ve got a free sitter! You have to come for sure now.”

A quick laugh bubbles from me, albeit a mournful one. “I’m pretty sure the twins won’t let me go to the bathroom, let alone all the way to Vegas—with or without them in tow.”

Carlotta bops over. “Are we talking about my upcoming Vegas trip again? The one where I’ll finally fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a showgirl—or at least getting arrested impersonating one?”

“Carlotta, you don’t even know who’s invited,” I point out. “This is Meg’s big trip.”

“Details, details.” She waves me off dismissively. “I’m a package deal. Where trouble goes, I follow. Or is it the other way around?”

---