Page 9 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

I practically drag Carlotta to the nearest dessert table, which groans under the weight of Irish-inspired confections. “Could you be any more obvious?” I hiss. “On second thought, don’t answer that.”

“What?” she balks. “He’s single, I’m single, and life’s too short to beat around the boozy bush.” She snags a Bailey’s cheesecake bite and shoves it into her pie hole.

“We don’t know that he’s single,” I say, snapping up a bright green dessert plate. “And you are definitely not single.”

“I don’t see a ring on my finger.” She spikes her hand to my nose. “And don’t you get any funny ideas about yipping away to your daddy. I’m not looking for a ring either. I’m the kind of girl that likes to take it slow.”

“Ha!I needed a good laugh.” And I don’t mind laughing right in her face. “The only thing you’re slow at is trying to commit. You share two children with the man.”

“That you know about,” she says with a cheeky wink and I really hope she’s kidding.

She pops one of Venus’ sweet treats into her mouth. “Mmm, this is sinful. Try the Irish coffee cupcakes. The whiskey buttercream is straight from Heaven.”

I load my plate with mini Irish apple cakes, whiskey-glazed donuts, and, of course, a few shamrock sugar cookies. “Wow, Venus really outdid herself with these treats.”

“Yououtdid yourself, Lot,” Carlotta corrects, sampling a chocolate Guinness cake pop. “These taste just like your recipes. I bet Venus bought up a bunch of your goodies and just slapped her name on them. How about we ask her to catch us outside? We can use your shamrock cookie cutters as brass knuckles.”

I avert my eyes. I’m about to say something, but my reply dies on my lips as I spot Eliza and Sebastian near the exit. His back is against the wall—literally—as Eliza jabs a finger into his chest. Even from here, I can see the fury radiating off her body like heat off a summer sidewalk. Sebastian’s easy charm has all but vanished, seemingly replaced by a mournful look in his eyes as he grabs her wrist.

I gasp and step away from the dessert buffet. “Should we go over there?” I ask, setting down my plate. And it would take something of this magnitude for me to do just that. I don’t give up on my desserts so quickly. Orever.

Carlotta follows my gaze and snorts. “And interrupt whatever that is? No, thank you. Eliza always gets the hot ones.” She winks at me. “Must run in the family.”

“Speaking of hot ones… I don’t see Everett anywhere.” I scan the room as anxiety begins to bubble up in me. Something is definitely off here tonight. And if that ghostly fox is a barometer, then it should be half past a murder by now. “Maybe I should text him? Things look as if they’re getting heated with Eliza and that man.”

“Nah, let Long Legs Lizzy have her moment. Whatever that silver fox did, she clearly has a thing or two to say about it.” A wicked grin begins to carve itself into her face. “Besides, nothing makes the hanky-panky hotter than having a good argument first. Trust me. I speak from experience.”

“Spare me the details,” I mutter. “Besides, that’s Everett’s mother we’re talking about. But regardless, I think you’re right. Maybe I should stay out of it.”

Carlotta lets out a whoop that manages to rise over the noise. “Say it again, Lot. The part about me being right. I want to record it on my phone.”

“Not on your life,” I sing, turning back to the desserts where my attention belongs.

Whatever history Eliza has with Sebastian, it’s not my place to interfere.

Twenty minutes pass in a blur of sugar and raucously loud Irish music. I sample sweet after sweet, each more decadent than the last—Irish cream fudge squares, whiskey truffles, mint chocolate grasshopper bars, and tiny soda bread pudding cups drizzled with whiskey caramel sauce.

The volume in the room only seems to increase. The music grows louder, the laughter more boisterous, and the chatter seems never-ending.

The twins seem to be performing somersaults in response to my sugar intake, and suddenly I need peace and quiet and a breath of fresh air.

“I’d better find Everett,” I say, holding my far too bloated belly as I crane my neck into the crowd. “Oh, look! I think I see him over there,” I tell Carlotta, squinting toward a tall, dark, and far too handsome figure near the hallway that leads to the bathrooms.

“Lead the way, Lady Waddles-a-Lot.”

Carlotta is lockstep with me as I push through the crowd, but sure enough the figure disappears down the hall. We follow, but instead of finding Everett, we discover a door leading outside. The cool night air beckons, promising relief from the stuffy, overcrowded room, and it’s a lure far too luscious to resist.

“Let’s get some fresh air,” I suggest, pulling her in that direction. “Just for a minute.”

We step outside and the night is gloriously crisp as clear sparkling stars dot the velvet sky. I take a deep breath, grateful for the quiet after the cacophony of noise inside. We step further onto the small patio behind the community center and move around a hedge that shields us from the view of the parking lot. I’m about to suggest we take a seat when I stub my shoe on something soft yet immovable.

We glance down and gasp as a far too familiar face lies toes up with his eyes fixed on nothing and a knife protruding from his chest. His white shirt has been stained crimson and that stain has spread like spilled whiskey. And speaking of the devil’s favorite libation, one of my whiskey-glazed donuts is in the man’s right hand while the ghost of a tiny white fox sits right on one of his kneecaps. The tiny poltergeist lets out a little yip before disappearing completely.

Carlotta grabs my arm and digs her nails into it. “I told you, Lot,” she shouts. “That room full of fiery redheaded firecrackers is bad luck.”

Bad luck is right.

Carlotta won’t have to worry about Sebastian becoming her next big mistake. Sebastian Gallagher is dead.

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