Page 50 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

I land in the seat to her right, effectively boxing her in, and my swollen feet are thankful for small mercies, regardless of the fact that those mercies come in the form of a hard barstool. Now to get some food in me. I open my purse and take a bite out of one of the crullers I packed.Have donuts, will travelseems to be my motto these days.

Della doesn’t even attempt to hide her relief as the man makes his hasty exit.

“Thanks,” she says to Carlotta. “He was about thirty seconds away from showing me pictures of his pet iguana.Again.”

“Iguana pictures are third-date material at the earliest,” Carlotta is quick to inform. “I once dated a man with a pet python. The jokes just write themselves with that one.”

Thankfully, she chooses to stop there.

“Do tell a few,” Sebby says, bouncing around on the bar in front of Carlotta with his tail swishing like mad.

But before Carlotta can oblige our ghostly guest, the bartender—a burly man with an obviously fake orange beard and a name tag that readsO’Malley—approaches us with a mile-wide smile.

“Good evening, ladies,” he practically yodels. “You look like a fun bunch. How about this—I give you the first drink free if you don leprechaun hats and orange beards.” He quickly outfits the three of us with the hat and face fur, and since we’re not ones to look a gift-leprechaun in the mouth, we quickly oblige.

“Oh Lolita,” Sebby marvels as he floats around my head as if he’s never seen a woman with a beard before despite his hair-raising story about Sebastian’s mother. Come to think of it, he’s probably never seen a pregnant woman with a beard before either. Although oddly enough, this orange furry nightmare once happened when I was knocked up with Lyla Nell, too. “Lolita,” Sebby sighs as he looks at me moony-eyed. “Be still my non-beating heart. I’ve never seen a human so beautiful. That beard really does take your natural beauty to new heights.”

I make a face at him. It’s nice to know if this bakery gig doesn’t work out, I can always join the circus.

The bartender nods our way once more. “What can I get for you girls?”

Carlotta raises her hand first. “I’ll have whatever has the highest alcohol content and the lowest shame factor.”

I avert my eyes because I know for a fact Carlotta doesn’t care about shame. If anything, she’s flirting shamelessly with the bartender at hand.

“One Leprechaun’s Curse, coming up.” O’Malley nods, apparently understanding this vague request.

“Guinness,” Della says quickly.

He turns to me and his eyes linger for a moment on my pregnant belly. “And for you?” He cringes slightly as he says it.

“Something green, festive, and completely non-alcoholic,” I reply. “I’m the designated everything these days.”

“Shamrock Shake with extra whipped cream it is.” He decides, already drifting away to prepare our drinks.

“Well, look at you.” Della smiles with delight as she inspects my swollen midsection. “You really bring new meaning to the wordsbelly up to the bar. And you hardly fit,” she says with a laugh. “When are you due?”

“Right about now,” I tell her, and the woman’s eyes round out. “But it feels as if I should have delivered last month. At this point, I think my body has forgotten what to do and when.”

She gives a mournful laugh. “Well, I can tell by the way you’re carrying that it’s a girl.” She grimaces slightly. “A verybiggirl.”

“You might be right,” I tell her. “The odds are fifty-fifty times two. I’m having twins.”

“Twins?” She laughs as she inspects me once again. “Your husband sounds like a real overachiever.”

“I’ve heard that before.” I laugh along with her because it happens to be something Noah pointed out when we announced the double trouble news.

Della seems to suddenly realize she’s flanked on both sides. Her easy smile fades slightly as she looks between us. “Hey? Do I know you two?”

“Not formally,” I answer, extending my hand. “I’m Lottie Lemon. I own the Cutie Pie Bakery in Honey Hollow. And this is Carlotta.”

“Just Carlotta,” Carlotta clarifies. “Like Madonna. Or Sasquatch.”

“Or Godzilla,” I add the more accurate comparison.

Della shakes my hand tentatively. “Della Crane. I’m a realtor with Red Crown Realty. Here to meet all of your real estate needs,” she says just as the bartender slides a green Guinness her way and she mock-toasts Carlotta and me before sucking the foam off the top. “Now how did we not formally meet again?”

“At the auburn affair last week at the community center the night Sebastian Gallagher was murdered,” I offer and the color drains from her face faster than beer from a punctured keg.

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