Poison Apple Crisp - Addison Moore Page 0,1

way. You know the type, black hair, demanding blue eyes, hardly ever smiles, a touch too serious, a touch too lethally handsome. He prefers to go by his middle name, Everett, and uses his formal moniker as sort of a door prize to the myriad of women he’s bedded. Yes, I’ve certainly garnered the right to call him Essex, but prior to our mattress mambo, I was already used to calling him Everett, so I’ve just stuck with it.

I’ve seen women get darn right caustic trying to crane their necks to get a better look at either of those men, and I can’t say I blame them.

Both Noah and Everett have about five years on me, putting them at about their mid-thirties.

And fun fact: I’ve been married to them both. Noah and I more or less walked into the institution backward. Not surprisingly, Everett was the one that helped us untangle that legal knot. And then last December, when I found out Everett was one bride short of being able to collect on his inheritance, I stepped up to the matrimonial plate. That’s where I am today—married to Everett. It started out as a technicality, nothing more than a business arrangement, but so far neither of us is hitting the brakes.

The bell on the front door chimes and my insides knot up, because as soon as my sister and bestie arrive, it will be showtime. I’ll have to spill the beans, and my secret will be a secret no more.

But it’s not either of them. Instead, it’s a trio of women, a redhead, a brunette, and a blonde. And down by their feet prances a fuzzy cinnamon-colored Pomeranian who just so happens to look as if he or she is smiling ear to fuzzy ear.

My co-worker, Lily Swanson, crops up next to me.

“It’s okay, Lottie. I got this,” she says. “You can go hang out with your family and friends.”

“Oh no, I’ve got this, Lily. You can take a break. I’ll be leaving early tonight and you’re closing, remember?”

She wrinkles her nose my way.

Lily has long dark hair, sculpted features, and pouty lips. Lily and I went to high school together, and she was more or less the mean girl and I was her victim. But now that I sign her paychecks, Lily seems to like me a whole lot better.

She leans my way. “Lottie, why do I get the feeling you’re avoiding all these people you’ve called to the bakery?”

I twist my lips. “Because you’ve got good intuition.” I turn to the three women and flash a bright smile. “Welcome to the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery. I’m the head baker and owner, Lottie Lemon. How can I help you today?”

The brunette gives a husky laugh. “You’re adorable. And this place is adorable. Actually, this is my first time setting foot in here. I haven’t had a carb in three years.” She laughs, and her friends laugh along with her.

But Lily and I aren’t laughing. We’re trying to figure out why someone would be so cruel to their bodies. Those apple fritters I fried up this morning aren’t going to eat themselves.

The brunette has a shock of short dark hair, bangs that trim her glossy green eyes, and a tight grin that never leaves her face.

“I’m Brenda Phillips, head of the Honey Hollow High PTA.” She nods my way. “I believe we spoke on the phone.”

“Yes! Brenda,” I say with a note of enthusiasm. “I have your order all boxed up and ready to go. And like I mentioned, I would have been more than happy to deliver them to you.”

Brenda laughs. “No way. I like things just so. I’m overseeing every detail of tonight’s fundraiser, and it’s going to go off without a hitch.” She turns to the redhead on the right. “That’s a promise.” She looks back my way. “Lottie, this is Cokie Hickman, the principal of Honey Hollow High. And this nitwit”—she gives a wink as she hitches her head to the blonde to her left—“is my right-hand gal.”

“Nice to meet you both. My stepdaughter, Everly—Evie—Baxter, will be attending as a junior this year and we’re all so very excited.” Everett finally helped Evie change her surname from Bentley to Baxter, which is wonderful—with the exception that her middle name just so happened to be Baxter. She’s officially Everly Baxter Baxter.

The principal’s mouth rounds out. “Everly Baxter?”

I’m about to tell her that nobody dares call Evie by her formal moniker, just as Noah and Everett stride