Page 46 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

“Tragedies need not apply,” I tell him.

“Fair point.” He shrugs. “Maybe you’ll find some good family names. You could honor someone important to the both of you.”

Before either Lemon or I can respond, Lyla Nell begins to chase Pancake and Waffles, and somehow manages to grab them both by the tails. Toby makes a run for it and hides out behind one of the dining room chairs. He knows she’s coming for him, too.

“All right, missy,” Lemon says. “It’s bathtime.”

“I’ll give her a bath,” Evie volunteers. “Mom, you should have your feet up, too.”

“Yup,” Noah agrees. “You and Everett are a couple of bookends, Lot.”

“Very funny,” she says, tossing a throw pillow at him. “I’ll help, Evie.”

They manage to herd Lyla Nell upstairs, and Carlotta stands to her feet with a groan.

“Come on, Sebby,” she says, hitching her head at thin air, although both Noah and I realize that there is most certainly something there. Apparently, in this case it’s a fox. “Let’s raid the fridge for cheesecake, then we’ll head down to Red Satin and you can watch all the foxy ladies. Harry and I are meeting there for nachos.”

I wait until she’s out of earshot before flicking a pillow at Noah and he catches it midair.

“No, neither of the twins is mine,” he says, flinging it back my way. “But I’ve still got joint custody of your wife’s common sense—and her heart.”

“And the common sense would somehow be related to you?” I ask, amused. “You do realize that I can still muster the strength to injure you.”

“All right, Toby, time to head across the street.” Noah laughs as he rises from his seat and Toby shows up front and center, and so do Pancake and Waffles. Lyla Nell has been a bit rough with them as of late. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they, too, would like a little respite across the street.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you and my mother were discussing,” I say a little rougher than intended. “I couldn’t get so much as a hello out of her.”

And yet Noah seemed to extract a whole conversation. I was watching long enough to observe the fact. She looked worried, almost pleading with him about something.

Noah’s eyes widen a notch before his lips clamp shut. He shakes his head my way.

“I’m sorry, buddy. But that conversation was strictly confidential.”

He wastes no time showing himself to the door, and I’m left with more questions than answers.

Carlotta darts out the door right after him and I decide to make the painful trek upstairs.

Lemon and I put Lyla Nell to bed and kiss Evie goodnight as well. “Come here, Judge Baxter,” Lemon says as she coaxes me into bed. “I think we need to examine some evidence that proves not all your parts are out of commission.” Her smile is equal parts sweet and wicked.

“Not even a broken back could stop me from delivering a verdict on that motion,” I tell her, wincing as I slide between the sheets. “Some cases deserve personal attention from the bench.”

And I am more than happy to oblige.

LOTTIE

It’s the very next day and I’m at the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery, right where I belong.

The afternoon rush has finally ended, leaving behind the lingering scent of sugar, yeast, and desperation—the last one being entirely mine.

The bakery counter looks like it survived a small cyclone, with display cases half-empty and enough green sprinkles scattered across surfaces that from a distance look like a freshly mowed lawn.

I collapse into a pastel chair at my favorite corner table, the one with the wobbly leg that only I know how to balance just right, and stare at the mountain of custard-filled donuts I’ve accumulated as my reward for surviving another day of smiling at customers while housing two tiny humans who seem determined to practice their kickboxing against my poor bladder.

And honestly? I’m beginning to think they’re settling in for the long haul. By this time with Lyla Nell, I was having nonstop Braxton Hicks contractions. And well, those seemed to have curtailed a week ago. It’s as if my babies have staged a coup ofmy uterus and have decided that my body will be their home for the next eighteen years.

Speaking of the twins, I pull out my to-do list, which has grown to such epic proportions that it might as well qualify as the Great American Novel.

St. Patrick’s Day is a mere day away, followed immediately by my birthday and Lyla Nell’s birthday—on the very same day. Then there’s the small matter of, oh, giving birth to twins any day now. Although I think we’ve already established the fact the birth in question is more or less a hypothetical event.

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