Page 3 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes

“I’d better keep an eye on her instead,” Noah says. “I’ve got a clear schedule tomorrow morning.”

“Perfect,” Everett says. “I’ll free up my afternoon.”

I shake my head. “You two do realize that arguing over who gets to babysit me is completely unnecessary, right? I am a fully functioning adult,” I say as I snatch another cookie from the dessert table, another green shamrock with lots of pink and green sprinkles. “I mean, sure, I may have had an episode the other day that had all the theatrics of a primetime medical drama, but turns out, it was just a silly Braxton Hicks extravaganza. I had them all the time with Lyla Nell. It was no big deal.”

“Lemon.” Everett inches his head back a notch. “You believed you were about to eject those kids ‘like two torpedo missiles’—and those were your exact words.”

“And that belief was wrong,” I’m quick to point out. “So, case closed, Judge Baxter.”

It’s true. Everett is a prominent judge down in Ashford County with far more important things to do than keep an eye on me while I stuff my face with cookies—and pie, and pizza, and everything that every restaurant on Main Street has to offer.

And well, Noah has a pretty important job down in Ashford, too, working for the Ashford Sheriff’s Department as their lead homicide detective.

Suffice it to say, the rash of homicides in Honey Hollow has kept him busy these past few years. And me busy by proxy since I always seem to find myself tangled up in them—and so do my sweet treats.

That wily little white fox I saw a few days ago comes to mind. It was more of a chihuahua with giant six-inch tall earsthat stick straight up and a cute little beak-like face than it was your traditional fox, but despite the fact, judging by the way it appeared and disappeared in a spray of blue and pink stars let me know that it was well past its prime. And we all know what happens when those long-gone creatures—human or of the furry variety—make an appearance in Honey Hollow.

I look out at the crowd once again and wonder which one of these redheads isn’t going to make it to that upcoming four-leaf clover-shaped day.

“Look, Everett”—Noah says, snapping up a cookie for both himself and me—“we’re both here, we’re both responsible adults, and we both know Lottie isn’t going to listen to reason, so you might as well grab a cookie and try to enjoy yourself. I say we divide and conquer. Obviously, you get the night shift, so I’ll spend my days with Lot.”

Everett growls in response and a sigh escapes me.

“Boys, please.” A laugh snorts from me, which sets off another round of baby acrobatics. “There’s enough of my swollen ankles and stretch marks to go around.”

True as gospel.

A loud whoop goes off and the laughter and the merriment in the community center only seems to rachet up a couple more wild notches.

The air smells divine—a mixture of buttery pastries, whiskey-soaked desserts, and the cinnamon-apple tea I’ve been downing by the gallon. The dessert tables are the centerpiece of the refreshment area, which feature more than a few Irish-themed treats, such as Bailey’s cheesecake bites topped with candied shamrocks, whiskey-glazed donuts with green sprinkles, Bailey’s brownie bites, and my pièce de résistance—mini Irish apple cakes drizzled with caramel whiskey sauce. Every confection either features a tiny fondant shamrock or has been dyed an alarming shade of green.

So far, March is shaping up to be pretty monumental. Not only has every redhead in Vermont (and possibly the country) descended on Honey Hollow to kick off the St. Patrick’s Day festivities—which will culminate in a parade for the ages—but my sweet baby girl Lyla Nell is turning two.

That’shuge.

Plus, my birthday happens to be the very same day, but honestly, I couldn’t care less. When you’re about to push two human beings out of your body, celebrating another trip around the sun seems rather inconsequential.

“Besides”—I say, moving along and snapping up a whiskey-glazed donut then thinking better of it and handing it to Everett before snapping up another cookie instead—“the doctor said light activity was fine,” I remind them. “This is me, being lightly active.”

My eyes drift back to that pile of whiskey-glazed donuts. I’ve already eaten six back at the bakery. And since I am cooking the glaze, I’m sure the tiny bit of whiskey that gets splashed into the mix has lost all of its nefarious powers. Besides, they really do taste divine.

Carlotta pops up, looking every bit like my doppelgänger—same honey blonde hair with touches of gray, same hazel eyes that are in serious need of some bifocals, which she refuses to don, far more wrinkles, and a far different figure considering she’s wearing an emerald green dress that I would die to fit into. And ironically, that dress was culled from my closet.

Carlotta is my biological mother who rematerialized in my life a few years back—just in time to claim her inheritance. Typical. She’s sarcastic, cunning, and all around a prickly cactus of a person who just so happens to live with Everett and me. It’s a long and sordid story.

“There she goes,” she sings as she watches me wolf down another shamrock sugar cookie. “Stuffing her face with cookies.Just what the doctor ordered. Where can I get me a doctor like that?”

Noah shakes his head. “You need to get knocked up first.”

Carlotta ticks her head to the side wistfully. “I’m afraid my baby-making days are over, Foxy. And don’t think I’m not sorry about it. I hear babies are big business these days. And to think I gave Lot away for free.”

It’s true. I ended up on the floor of the Honey Hollow Fire Department while my sister Charlie had the misfortune of actually being raised by Carlotta. All things considered, I got off pretty easy.

“Hear that, Lot?” She taps her elbow to mine. “If you change your mind about keeping the little yippers, you can make a mint—as in double the dineros! I’ve got connections if you want to make a deal.”

“Sorry to dash your dinero dreams, but I’m keeping them,” I tell her as I snap up yet another cookie—a caramel turtle wonder. “And I’m keeping the cookie train going, too. It’s medicinal. The babies demanded it—telepathically, of course.”

“That’s funny.” Noah tips his head my way. “The babies also telepathically demanded you stay home last week when we wanted to go fishing.”

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