“What?” I shriek as I give Everett’s arm a tug. “Is this true?” I have it on good authority that it could be. Almost all of Eliza Baxter’s wealth comes from the fact she’s a hotel heiress.
“It used to be.” Everett winces. “Come to think of it, this might still be one of our holdings. My mother did a little fancy footwork with some of the properties a while back. I’ll have to revisit the portfolio.”
Noah huffs. “I’ll have to revisit the portfolio,” he mimics before chuckling. “See that, Lot? He’s keeping things from you. Did you sign a prenup?”
“I don’t think so.” Last year I could have given a far more definitive answer, but the baby has been nibbling on my brain cells as of late, so there’s that.
Noah leans my way. “Play your cards right and this place can be yours. And if I play my cards right, this place could be ours.” He waggles his brows, and I give him a playful swat.
We step into the glamorous hotel, with its glossy white marble flooring, dark mahogany covered walls, and enough chandeliers to ensure the blind can see. But distracting from all the opulence are the gorgeous women in ultra-short glittering gowns showing off legs for miles, bosoms for days, and enough cosmetics on their frozen faces to outfit the makeup counter at the mall. Let’s not forget their purse puppies. About every third woman here is holding a tiny cute pooch in the crook of her arm as if it was the latest fashion accessory. A few men in dapper suits roam the vicinity as well with a smattering of salt and pepper hair, and more than a few have bloated bellies and wrinkles. It’s easy to say that the women all look a heck of a lot more well-preserved than the men in this scenario.
Both Noah and Everett are in their mid-thirties, with Everett being a year older. I’m in my late twenties, but with my creaky joints and body as limber as a tree trunk, I feel about a hundred as of late. Make that two hundred since technically there are two of us residing in my body.
The women here all look impossibly thin. It’s a phenomenon I’ve noticed ever since my body has morphed into a beach ball to accommodate this sweet little sugar cookie in my belly. I’ve pretty much gifted my child the equivalent of an Olympic-sized swimming pool to move around in, mostly in part to my obsession with fried pickles and just about anything else I can shove into my pie hole.
I can’t help it. I’m half-starved at any given time. I once left the house without any food on me and was half-tempted to eat a pack of tissues. And from that day forward, I always travel with at least a half dozen fried pickles and a couple of crullers on me. I finally understand the need for mothers to haul around purses the size of small luggage. It’s to accommodate the desires of their insatiable appetites.
We find a table to the right with a couple of women assisting everyone as they sign in, and no sooner do we take a step in that direction than all-out chaos ensues.
Hysterical cries of Essex and Noah echo throughout the massive lobby, and soon both men have been plucked away from me and are being equally mobbed by a bevy of beauties doing their best to climb Mount Baxter and Mount Fox.
Sure, Everett is my husband, but that’s never stopped me from feeling protective and just a wee bit possessive over Noah as well. I’ve got a cauldron’s worth of hormones brewing in me, not to mention Noah’s prospective child, so I don’t mind one bit laying claim to him, too.
I quickly sign the three of us in, impart a little impromptu Kung Fu to free Noah and Everett, and drag the three of us—four if we’re counting Sugar Cookie—into the grand ballroom that’s playing host to this evening’s festivities.
Cheery music filters through the speakers, the chandeliers sparkle up above, the room is swimming with glittering women and handsome men, and somewhere layered beneath the clash of expensive perfumes and colognes, the scent of vanilla lights up my senses. I follow that dreamy scent all the way over to the refreshment table, where not one but three people who are helping me out for the evening are serving up sliver after sliver of my lemon Bundt cake with its rich thick layer of creamy lemon icing.
“Come to Mama,” I say as I break loose from Noah and Everett and quickly snap up a slice for myself.
“Mom!” Evie, the sixteen-year-old brunette stunner of a daughter that I share with Everett, comes around the table and gives me a firm embrace. “You look freaking amazing. Don’t be intimidated by all these plastic blowup dolls running around. You’re the real deal, even if you do look as if you swallowed a pumpkin and are about to eat the next person you see. I bet you’ll have to fight off the men just like Dad and Uncle Noah are fighting off the women.”
“What?” I glance back, and sure enough, they’re both being mobbed once again. There’s even a small white Maltese with long satin hair that gleams as it drapes its entire tiny frame. The poor thing is yipping and yapping as it attempts to penetrate the madness, but it’s wisely deciding to stand back and watch the melee from a safe distance.
“Don’t act surprised, Lottie,” Lily Swanson, my trusty right-hand gal at the bakery, says as she replenishes the dessert plates as quickly as people snatch them away. “Women have been asking all night if the Golden Boy has arrived.” Lily is a pithy brunette who once bullied me way back when, but now that I sign her paychecks, she’s miraculously a lot kinder to me.
Carlotta snorts.
Carlotta Sawyer is my biological mother. We share the same caramel-colored wavy tresses, hazel eyes, and ability to see right through to the other side—as in the supernatural side. Over more than two decades ago, she had the wherewithal to abandon me on the floor of the Honey Hollow Fire Department when I was just a few hours old. And believe me, I’ve been thankful ever since. The family that adopted me, the Lemons, was a better family than I could ever have hope for. Still are.
“Hear that, Lot Lot?” Carlotta chuckles to herself as she whacks off another slice of lemon cake. “Every woman here is hungry for a bite of Foxy pie.”
Foxy is a nickname Carlotta has for Noah as a play on his surname.
“And don’t forget Essex.” Lily winks my way as she says it.
It just so happens that Everett prefers to go by his middle name. But as fate and Everett’s playboy past would have it, the only people he allows to call him by his proper moniker are women he’s danced in the sheets with—save for his mother and sister, and sometimes Noah’s mother, too. And even though I more than qualify for that Essexy party prize, I still call him by the name I’ve always called him.
“That’s right.” Carlotta slaps her belly as if she’s just finished a filling meal, and seeing that she’s in close proximity to one of my favorite desserts, I can’t blame her. “Mr. Sexy has been in high demand, too.” Mr. Sexy is the nickname that the baristas of the world have gifted Everett, and face it, they’re not wrong. “I don’t suspect you’ll see too much of either of them for the rest of the night. A couple of women are hoping to join Club Essex before the night is through.”
Evie pretends to gag, or at least I’m hoping she’s pretending, but nevertheless I’m about to join her.
“No one is joining Club Essex tonight or any other night.” The words come from me like a battle cry as I head over to the tangle of bodies that are swirling like a human hurricane.