She scoffs my way. “Lottie, your belly just shot out like a bullet overnight. Are you sure you’re not stuffing your dress with a pillow? I’ve never seen anyone pop like that.”
“It’s not a pillow,” Everett tells her. “I can testify to that.” His lips curve as he takes up my hand and half the women in the room sigh in his direction. “I’ve seen her without a stitch of clothing on to prove it.” His lips flicker and I can hear a low growl coming from behind—most likely from Noah.
Everett is caustically handsome, but tonight with his black suit, black tie, hair the color of the darkest midnight, and eyes that shine like the sea, he looks dangerously delicious. And I’m suddenly having a mad craving for one hot and more than naughty judge.
Not only is Everett stone-cold handsome, he’s slow to smile, has a body built for speed that most definitely meets all of my needs, and exudes a dangerous level of sexual appeal that demands the attention of every estrogen-bearing card member in a ten-state radius. There is something undeniably magnetic about him that commands the women in the room crane their necks in his direction at any given time.
“Lot Lot!” Carlotta Sawyer runs this way doing an odd little bow-legged hop as if she had a watermelon tucked between her knees, wearing a dress that’s far too short and far too glittery. “This is the best cake you’ve ever made.” She holds out a plate with a stack of waffles six high.
“Carlotta, that’s not a cake,” I’m quick to tell her.
“It’s a cake, Lot,” she insists while taking another bite. Both Carlotta and I share the same caramel-colored hair, hazel eyes, and the exact same name—Carlotta. We also share the same ability to see the dead. In fact, it was her wonky genetics that gave that quirky gift to me to begin with.
Carlotta is my biological mother. Almost three decades ago, Carlotta left me on the floor of the Honey Hollow Fire Department and took off for baby-less pastures. But lucky for me, the Lemons quickly took me in, gave me two sisters and a stable home to boot. Then just a couple of years ago, Carlotta pranced right back into my life.
She moans her way through a bite. “We need to give this cake a name, Lot Lot, and frost it up for the masses.”
“We’ll call it Carlotta’s Midnight Surprise Cake That’s Not a Cake, ” I tell her.
“I vote for Better Than Sex Cake.” Lily snorts. “Each bite is a taste of heaven.”
Carlotta honks out a laugh. “The day Lot Lot starts selling Better Than Sex Cake, it’s curtains for you, Mr. Sexy.”
Mr. Sexy is the nickname baristas the world over have gifted to Everett, and they’re not wrong. Carlotta has picked up on it, and I don’t think she plans on letting go of it either.
Everett’s cheeks flicker. “I trust she’d add an addendum to the name of that cake just for me.” His lids hood a notch as he looks my way and my insides do that swirly thing he’s so good at sponsoring in every woman with a set of functioning ovaries.
Lily laughs. “That would make a Better Than Sex Cake with the exception of Essex. Of course, that’s a given for me, too.” She winks his way.
I frown over at her. Essex is Everett’s formal moniker, and the only people he allows to use it freely—with the exception of his mother or sister—are the women he’s danced in the sheets with. And yes, Lily qualifies, as do countless of other women who are probably in this very room tonight. Everett has done the deed with a good portion of the females in Vermont—heck, most likely the Eastern Seaboard. He was quite the playboy before he met me, but I choose to overlook it. I still call him with the name I’ve used from the beginning and he doesn’t seem to mind.
“I’ll pass on calling the coital nickname for the waffles,” I say, breaking off a piece of Carlotta’s questionable cake and popping it into my mouth. Mmm, she’s so right. It’s delicious if I do say so myself, even if it’s not a cake.
“Never mind the cake, Lot.” Carlotta gives my arm a tug. “I’ve got to introduce you to my friends. They’re all here tonight, every last one of ’em.”
“What friends?” I can’t help but ask. Carlotta’s not exactly Ms. Congeniality, and the only friends she does have are…
I suck in a quick breath. “You don’t mean…”
She nods. “That’s right. All the big shots are accounted for and present. The Canellis, the Lazzaris—they’re all here tonight. And there are even some bigwigs here from the top New Jersey family, the Morettis.”
And all three of them just so happen to be crime families, as in the mob.
Noah and Everett exchange a dark glance. The Canellis and the Lazzaris have been feuding for years. Just last spring, Noah, Carlotta, and I got caught up in a shootout between the two of them. A bullet grazed Noah, but it wasn’t lost on me he could have been killed. These people are dangerous with a capital everything.
“And great news!” Carlotta swallows down another bite in haste. “Cat Canelli isn’t on the lam anymore.”
“Wonderful.”
Was Cat Canelli on the lam? Or was that her aunt Connie? On second thought, it was most likely both.
Carlotta swats me on the arm. “Cat got her brothers to do a big shakedown of the po-po and she’s free and clear. The doctor’s her uncle.” She gives a cheesy wink. “Come on, I’ve gotta introduce you.”
She grabs me by the hand before I can protest, and we’re off into the thick of the dance floor until we hit a pocket of mostly dark-haired women of Italian descent dressed in a variety of black and silver sequin gowns, with a pink one thrown in for good measure.
The women all have on the same matching red lipstick, same heavy rouge, and long false eyelashes as if they belonged to some cosmetics cult, but then again, everyone in here would qualify for that cult tonight, myself included.
I couldn’t help it. You can’t wear a dress like this and show up with your face as plain as a pancake, or at least I couldn’t. I’m not exactly sleeping all that well at night and my face is taking on a pasty appeal to go along with my zombie-like vegetative state. Between my bladder and my newfound belly bulge, it’s touch-and-go for the entire eight-hour stretch. I’ve got dry lips and I have dark circles and bags under my eyes big enough to fit a sofa.
I offer an amicable smile to the women before me—who oddly enough, all seem to be chewing on gum frenetically as if they were in a bubble-blowing contest. I’m not sure if they’re all Canellis. But I get the feeling they are, and that’s exactly why this whole meet and greet makes me more than a little nervous. I’d much rather be munching on one of my waffles with a little hot sauce on the side to make it sing, of course. It’s one of my new cravings. I need to have a drizzle of hot sauce on just about everything lately, and I do mean everything. It’s gotten to the point where I have a bottle with me in my purse at all times. You never know when you’re going to have to jazz up a waffle, or in this case, splash a mobster in the eye to make a quick getaway. Not that I feel as if I’m in imminent danger. Yet.
“Everyone.” Carlotta’s voice hikes up over the music as the women slow their shuffle. Carlotta holds me close. “This is the loot from my patoot!”