Page 32 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

“Sexy!You’re alive,” she screeches, sliding across the freshly polished floor like a bedazzled hockey puck.

“Carlotta,stop,” Noah and I shout in unison, but it’s too late.

She crashes into the kitchen island, sending perfectly arranged copper pots and pans raining down from the overhead rack. And it sounds a lot like someone dropped a drum set down a flight of stairs.

Carlotta, not being one to fall gracefully, pinwheels backward and directly toward me.

“Geez.” I wince.

I can’t move, can’t dodge—I’m more or less a helpless target.

She lands directly on top of me, knocking what little breath I had left completely out of my lungs. And somehow—because theuniverse has a twisted sense of humor or Carlotta has very good aim—we end up face-to-face, lip-to-lip.

For one horrifying microsecond, Carlotta and I are all but kissing on the kitchen floor.

“Get off of him,” Noah gruffs as he attempts to pluck her away, but not before I get new pain from her elbow in my sternum, adding to my collection of injuries. “All right, Carlotta, stop trying to steal first base.”

“Please,” Carlotta huffs, trying to right herself but only managing to dig her knee into my thigh and I grunt hard because of it. A few inches north and I’d be in a whole different world of hurt. “I’ve had better kisses from my great-aunt Mildred’s taxidermied poodle,” she snips as she claws her way to her feet. “Put a little oomph into it next time, Sexy. It’s like you don’t even care.”

“Everett, is everything okay?” Lemon shouts from the front door and I shake my head at Noah.

“Tell her I’m fine.”

“He’s laid up, toes to the ceiling, can’t move, and his phone is under the fridge,” Noah says with a deranged grin. “He greased the floors with enough furniture polish to host the Stanley Cup finals right in your living room.”

A groan comes from the other room. She’s not thrilled, but then neither am I.

“I can’t live like this,” Carlotta says with her hands on her hips. “Where am I supposed to go?”

I lock eyes with Noah, who shakes his head frantically.

“Go with Noah, across the street,” I reply without hesitation, ignoring his dagger-filled glare. “His cabin is plenty big enough to house you, Lemon, and Lyla Nell for the night until I can get someone out here to strip the floors—or rip them out.”

Carlotta tips her head my way. “That’s Sexy flexing his funds.”

Noah chuckles my way. “And yet all the money in the world couldn’t save you from yourself.”

As Noah helps me to my feet—every joint in me protests the movement—I realize that surviving eight hours stranded on my kitchen floor might have been the easy part of my day. The real challenge will be surviving the night knowing Lemon will be in his bed instead of mine.

Hopefully, Noah will have enough sense to let her have his bedroom to herself. But something tells me he won’t.

Where is a killer when you need one?

NOAH

Ican’t stop smiling as I settle behind my desk.

It’s the next afternoon, and my mind keeps replaying last night on an endless loop. Who knew Everett’s little foray into domestication disasters would turn out to be the best thing to happen to me all night, all month—heck, allyear?

The original plan was for Carlotta to bunk at my place, too, but she took one look around at the tower of empty pizza boxes and declared it an affront to her aesthetic sensibilities before promptly vacating the premises. Within twenty minutes, she’d called Mayor Nash and sweet-talked her way into his bedroom. Some people would call that a lucky break. I call it divine intervention.

That left just Lottie and Lyla Nell in my cabin—exactly where they belonged, even if it was just for one night. After dinner (pizza from Mangias, our favorite) and bathtime for Lyla Nell (which somehow resulted in more water on me than on her), Lottie crawled right into my bed and so did Lyla Nell.

I had the privilege of reading them both a bedtime story, and once they fell asleep, I did, too. It was bliss sleeping in the samebed as Lottie again. And having Lyla Nell sleeping between us felt like heaven on top of that.

I chuckle at the thought, shuffling papers I’m not actually reading. The case files on my desk should have my full attention, but they don’t stand a chance against the memory of Lottie’s sleepy smile this morning when she found me making pancakes.

Everett fared just fine himself, from what I heard. Evie came home from college and spent the night mopping the floors and tending to her laid-up father. They, too, split a pizza along with a bag full of Chinese food from the Wicked Wok. I don’t feel sorry for him in the least.

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