Page 57 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

“Tell me about it,” I say, doing my best to restock the inventory. “At this rate, the twins will be born into a town suffering collective sugar withdrawal.” Not that it’s a bad thing—especially not when you own the bakery in town who has what it takes to feel better.

Carlotta and Suze step up, both craning their necks hard into the crowd.

“That gentleman right there”—Carlotta points with a half-eaten whiskey-glazed donut—"now he has the kind of thighs that could crack walnuts. Just saying.”

I shake my head their way. I'm not even going to ask.

Suze follows her gaze to a kilt-wearing bagpiper. “Nah. He’s too skinny. But that fellow behind him? Now he's built like a rugby player. Just get a look at those shoulders. Now that’s what I call Irish stew material.”

Did she really just sayIrish stew?

Again, I am not going to ask.

“You two realize not everyone in a kilt is actually Irish, right?” I remind them while restocking our rapidly depleting display of green bagels. They might be green, but they are delicious.

“Details, details.” Carlotta dismisses me with a wave, and I think she just flipped me the bird, too. “A man in a skirt is a man brave enough for anything. Everyone knows that, Lot.”

“It’s not a skirt,” Lily chimes in, arranging the shamrock cookies before stealing one and taking a bite out of it. “It’s traditional Highland dress.”

“Know-it-all,” Suze says under her breath.

Lily isn’t usually a know-it-all, so I’m pretty impressed with her man-skirt knowledge.

“Ha,” Carlotta barks out a laugh. “That’s what I call easy access.”

“Carlotta.” Effie gasps, then laughs. “Watch it, woman. There are children present.”

“Children?” Suze snorts. “I only see potential husbands and future ex-husbands. Not that I’m ever getting married again.”

“Tell it like it is, Suzie Q,” Carlotta steals another whiskey-glazed donut. “If they’re old enough for green beer, they’re old enough for the truth about kilts.”

I shoot her a look.

“Relax, Lot Lot,” Carlotta goes on despite the death stare I’m currently giving her. “Kids these days know more about easy access than we do. They invented dating apps, remember? Besides, the real crime here would be not appreciating fine Irish craftsmanship when it parades right in front of us.”

“Donuts!” Noah’s voice breaks through the crowd, and soon enough he materializes in front of me, looking as dapper as ever in a tweed jacket and jeans, already reaching for one of the few remaining whiskey-glazed specimens. “I’ve been patrolling for two hours on nothing but coffee.” He pulls me in and lands a kiss on my cheek as both twins jump in my belly.

“Nothing but coffee? You poor baby,” I tease and slide him an extra donut because of it.

“How’s it hanging, Foxy?” Carlotta leans in and I gasp at the woman. “What?” she counters. “I’m talking about his nightstick.” She looks back at him. “Have you seen any leprechaun-related crimes?”

“Three drunk and disorderlies, two public indecency warnings for inappropriate shamrock placement, and one attempted theft of a ‘pot of gold’ from the bank’s float.” He takes a massive bite of his donut, and just the sight makes me want to do the same. I’ve already eaten a cool dozen this morning. “The usual St. Patrick’s Day mayhem,” he finishes.

But before Carlotta can regale us with another inappropriate comment, Everett appears beside him, looking unfairlyhandsome in his green button-down shirt and a well-fitted dark suit that brings out the vexingly sexy blue in his eyes.

“Lemon.” He leans in and lands a kiss to my lips. “The parade committee outdid themselves this year. I counted at least six bagpipers who can actually play the instrument.”

“A new record,” I say before dotting his lips with another far steamier kiss. I can’t help it. My hormones are on fire. And after Everett’s performance in the bedroom last night, every last bit of me is on fire to get right back there for a repeat performance.

His phone buzzes, and he frowns at the screen. “Evie says her car won’t start. Conner is supposed to meet her here for the parade, but she’s stuck at the house. She wants me to give her a lift.”

“Go,” I tell him. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, and I’ve got plenty of help.” I gesture to our fully staffed booth.

“Are you having any contractions?” He glances at my belly skeptically. “You’re coming up on your due date, and they say twins are notorious for making an early arrival.”

“We both know they’re definitely too late to do that. I haven’t even had a hint of a contraction. I think I’m going to have to give these kids an official eviction notice. And regardless, I promise not to have the twins until you get back,” I assure him with a solemn nod. “Scout's honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

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