“I will,” I shout as I follow them to the front of the B&B where they’re shoved into the back of a patrol car with its lights flashing as if this were the scene of some horrific crime.
Everett looks my way and mouths I love you just as their car speeds away.
I love him, too, and look where my love has landed us, where my love always lands the three of us—in the deep end of trouble.
*Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed Lottie’s latest adventure. You will not want to miss the next book in the series! Click HERE—> Raspberry Tart Terror (Murder in the Mix 30) to pick it up today! This book includes both Noah and Everett’s point of view, in addition to Lottie!
My name is Lottie Lemon, and I see dead people. Okay, so I rarely see dead people, mostly I see furry creatures of the dearly departed variety who have come back from the other side to warn me of their previous owner’s impending doom.
Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and so is my baby. It’s time for my birthing classes to begin but something earth-shattering has happened to someone I love most and I can’t seem to focus on anything else—that is until something goes very wrong at the Love Your Selfie Soiree thrown by Cormack and Cressida and someone ends up dead. Now I have two things to keep me up at night long before the baby ever arrives. Love is in the air and so is murder.
Click HERE—> Raspberry Tart Terror (Murder in the Mix 30) to pick it up today! This book includes both Noah and Everett’s point of view, in addition to Lottie!
Grab it NOW!
Recipe
From the kitchen of the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery
Lottie’s Infamous Waffles
Hello! Lottie here! It’s the start of a brand new year in Honey Hollow and what better way to kick it off than with a batch of homemade waffles? Now, I have to tell you right off the bat that Evie, Everett, and Noah have made these almost as much as I have, and believe me this is a tried and true recipe. There is no better indulgence than to kick off the day with these light, fluffy, yet perfectly crunchy waffles. I hope you and your family will enjoy them as much as mine does! Here’s to a great start to a brand new year for us all!
Ingredients
2 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 ¾ milk
½ vegetable oil
1 ½ tablespoon sugar
4 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Directions
Preheat waffle iron. Beat eggs in a large bowl until fluffy. Mix in flour, milk, vegetable oil, sugar, baking powder, salt and vanilla, then stir until smooth.
*Spray preheated waffle iron with non-stick cooking spray (some models don’t allow for this. Spray non-stick cooking spray if you’re able). When your waffle iron is nice and hot, pour the batter onto it.
Cook until golden brown. Serve hot.
Enjoy and happy New Year!
New Series Preview!
***Love Janet Evanovich? You’ll have a blast with Meow for Murder. Enjoy the sneak peek!
Pick it up NOW! —> An Awful Cat-titude
A highly inaccurate psychic. A grumpy writer. And a corpse. Welcome to Starry Falls. Running from the mob can be murder.
Confession. I’m no psychic. But I can sort of see the future—albeit not accurately. And you better believe, I’ve never let that little detail stop me from prognosticating my way into a pickle. So when I ticked off the mob, the feds, and my wily ex, I decided to take my Uncle Vinny’s advice and start over with a new name and new hair color while relying on my old shtick—getting my psychic wires crossed and putting myself in danger.
Chapter 1
“I don’t want to die!” The words rip from my throat as if they were being pulled out with barbed wire.
My name is Stella Santini. I’ve got long black hair, light brown eyes, stand at an average height of five-foot-five, and I can see the future.
Okay, fine.
Confession: I’m no psychic. Nor have I ever come close to predicting what the future might hold—not with any accuracy anyway.
You see, ever since I was a little girl, I had what my Nana Rose liked to call the shakes. Technically, it’s more of a shiver, and when you get down to it, there’s a warm, fuzzy feeling involved that makes me want to forget about the world around me for a moment and retreat to the dark recesses of my mind where a thought plays out like a movie and I see things.
And trust me when I say, I have been wrong about interpreting the things I see on more than one occasion.
Take now for instance. This morning when a scene from the West End Woods flashed through my mind and I saw myself running for my life—I thought maybe I might be running from a serial killer looking for his next victim on this odd jaunt through the woods or running from a bear looking for his first meal post-hibernation, thus the solemn decision I came to during my second cup of coffee to stay the heck away from the West End Woods for the duration of my supernatural life.
But in a twist that only fate could provide, here I am, a mere hour later, panting, ducking evergreen trees and their prickly branches that threaten to poke my eyes out as if my life were on the line, and, oddly enough, I think it is.
“Don’t kill me!” I howl once again, ducking and jiving my way through the forest as my Uncle Vinnie chases me through the woods with a bona fide weapon in his hand.
“I’m not gonna kill you for God’s sake!” he riots right back.
“Then why are you holding a gun?”
Let’s backtrack for a minute. After I enjoyed my third cup of coffee this morning, Uncle Vinnie called and said I had fifteen minutes to get dressed because we had things to discuss and he was picking me up pronto.
He sounded serious, morbid even. And I know him well enough to realize he meant business. I had an inkling about the subject he was going to prick. I happen to be what the mob likes to call a dead girl walking. Less than twenty-four hours ago, in what I and any sane person would call a very unfortunate chain of events, I managed to tick off the mob, the federal government, and break up with my idiot boyfriend of two years, Johnny Rizzo, all within a fifteen-minute span. And judging by this mad dash through the West End Woods, you could toss my Uncle Vinnie on that ticked-off list, too.
My foot catches on a buckling root system and I trip, slowing myself down enough for me to know I’ve just widened that bullseye on my back.
“Don’t shoot!” I cry out, jogging to a finish as I spin around.
Uncle Vinnie stops within feet of me, panting, the veins on his neck throbbing like a couple of angry garden snakes about to wiggle their way into his brain.
Uncle Vinnie is tall, with black hair, dark eyes, and bushy eyebrows that hover over his face, giving him that perpetually angry look he’s got going for him in life. But, by and large, he’s a good guy who stepped up to the plate once my father was put away five years ago on RICO charges. He treated my brother, sister, and me as if we were his own children while my mother got a quickie divorce and began to chase men far younger straight into her bedroom.