Peach Cobbler Confessions by Addison Moore Page 0,1

animal attraction, Everett was hit with a double portion. And just about everyone calls him Everett. Outside of his mother and sister, the only people who have the privilege of calling him by his proper moniker are the women who have tangoed naked with him. Even though I more than qualify, I still call him by the name I’m used to.

Everett was the king of all playboys when we first met, but he’s since abdicated his lewd throne and has honed all of his hormonal and emotional affection toward yours truly.

I scan the right-hand side of the room once again but come up empty a second time.

I’m not sure why I’ve had an awful feeling of foreboding the second I stepped into this cavernous infrastructure. A shiver runs through me, because for one, it’s a bit too chilly in here despite the fact it’s a hot and humid August evening.

Okay, so I might have some inkling why I’m having this awful feeling of apprehensiveness. Everett announced last week that he has some big, dark secret he’s been sitting on for a while now. He asked for some time to formulate his thoughts on the subject before we have a discussion, and I told him not to worry about it until after tonight’s ceremony, or longer if need be. I trust Everett with everything in me. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s fine.

I do a quick scan of the men and women seated in the two front rows then back to the right, near the dessert table.

My bakery, the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery, provided all of the desserts for tonight’s ceremony. Both Everett and Noah thought it would be a great way to showcase my goodies to those who live outside of Honey Hollow as well, and I quickly jumped on the chance once they asked.

My assistant, Lily Swanson, and I hauled down platters full of rocky road brownies, blondies, blueberry hand pies, cookies in every assortment—especially the chocolate chip cookies Noah lives for—pretzel cookies, mini cheesecake bites, double chocolate cupcakes, vanilla bean cupcakes, a smattering of thumbprints, and individual peach cobblers set in cupcake parchment.

The local orchard just so happened to have a bumper crop of luscious, sweet, organic peaches, and the bakery has been the lucky recipient.

My attention gravitates toward a couple of men having a rather intense conversation. One is stockier than the other, bald with salt and pepper scruff over his cheeks. The other man has dark wavy hair, a heavily chiseled face, high cheekbones, and a flat forehead. He’s handsome in a conventional way. His face turns pink as he says something to the stockier man. He takes off and a svelte brunette with long glossy hair takes his place, and by the looks of it, she, too, is having an animated conversation with the bald man. She gives him a shove to the chest before stalking off.

Looks as if someone is having a lousy night. I wonder what the poor guy did? A blonde strides his way and slows down as she approaches him. She says something short and not so sweet by the looks of it, offers him a crisp slap over the face, and keeps on walking as if it were no big deal.

Wow.

Does that man unwittingly have a sign taped to his shirt that reads kick me?

Okay, so no one kicked him, but they have emotionally. The poor guy has to feel beat down.

Lainey gasps as she tugs at my arm. “He’s next! He’s next!”

The announcer calls out, “Firefighter Forest Donovan,” and Lainey leaps right out of her chair, screaming wildly as if she were at a rock concert.

Forest graciously accepts his award and my sister flops back in her seat, holding her oversized belly and weeping as if he just received a purple heart, and seeing that Forest has risked his life a time or two in the line of duty, it’s just as sweet a reward.

I glance back toward the dessert table, but the unlucky John Doe has done a disappearing act. Probably for the better. Odd, though.

The ceremony drones on and finally we’re onto the judicial branch of public servants.

Carlotta elbows me in the ribs once again. “The mister is up next, Lot. Try not to distract him with your va-va-bakery-voom.”

I crane my neck and, sure enough, I see Everett toward the end of the line. I happen to glance back to the dessert table and, lo and behold, the lonesome loser is back to loafing around my