2. Lottie

LOTTIE

" B e careful, Lemon," Everett grunts as he does his best to juggle the gingerbread houses stacked three deep in his arms. "I'd never forgive myself if you slipped in the snow."

"I'm not slipping," I tell him while struggling to hold a couple of boxes filled with plum pudding. Normally, it wouldn't be a struggle at all, but with my belly the size of Santa's sleigh, everything has been a challenge as of late.

Being a million months pregnant with twins isn't exactly how I envisioned my holidays this year, but here we are. And both babies give me a little kick in unison as if to say they're glad to be here.

Okay, so I'm not a million months pregnant. I'm somewhere between six and seven. My maternity math game has never been strong. And it doesn't help that every month it's a different number.

The chilly evening air nips at my cheeks as Everett and I navigate the snow-dusted parking lot of the Evergreen Manor, each of us balancing a precarious stack of goodies from my bakery.

The sky is a heavenly shade of navy as a bed of stars twinkles at us from above. It's mid-December and all of Honey Hollow has been decorated from top to bottom as we welcome the most wonderful time of year.

It's the night of the Purple Bonnet Society's Christmas party—an ugly sweater party no less. The Purple Bonnet Society is basically Honey Hollow's version of the Red Hat Society where women over a certain age (in this case, sixty) get together and form a sisterhood of sorts while rabble-rousing with the best of them.

I should know, my mother just so happens to head up the club.

"Thank you for helping me schlep these out here," I say to my handsome hubby, Judge Essex Everett Baxter, or as he's better known around these parts, Mr. Sexy.

Everett is tall with dark hair, has a dark, brooding nature, and happens to be the owner of a dark, devilish smile—although he rarely gives it—and he has eyes as blue as the sea. Have I mentioned he's a judge? Everett is essentially perfect in every way—perfectly scrumptious.

"I already had Lily and Effie deliver almost two dozen undercoated gingerbread houses for the party," I say as I struggle to plod along. "But my mom called and asked for more at the last minute. And well, the bakery was busy, so neither Lily nor Effie could leave early. So this really helps a lot."

"Well, I hope these ladies are hungry for gingerbread," he teases.

"You know my mother"—I laugh as we continue to make our way toward the ballroom—"always thinking about what could take her parties to the next level. And in this case, it just so happens to be decorating my gingerbread houses."

Gingerbread houses aside, my bakery, the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery, is catering the desserts for the event. I've already delivered enough cookies, cakes, and pies to outfit a holiday party at the North Pole itself.

"And since we were already swinging by, I thought I'd bring some more plum pudding, too," I say as I try to keep myself from waddling off the groomed path from the parking lot to the back of the Evergreen Manor. We've had quite a few feet of snow since Thanksgiving, so already we're in for a white Christmas.

I'm waddling more than walking these days as the twins make their presence known with every step. Everett, bless his heart, manages to carry the bulk of our festive cargo with that unwavering steadiness of his while shooting me concerned glances every few steps to make sure I haven't landed on my keister.

The twins give another playful kick.

" Ohh , these babies are dancing up a storm." I bubble with laughter as we make our way toward the peach glow emanating from the back entry of the ballroom. The door is slightly ajar and the sound of cheery Christmas carols and peals of hysterical laughter stream from it all at once.

"Those kicks are their way of cheering for Team Dad, making sure you don't dive into a snowbank."

"Team Dad, huh?" I give a good-natured laugh. "And here I thought we were all on Team Don't Drop the Baked Goods—the gingerbread houses specifically."

"We can be on multiple teams." He adjusts his grip on the precarious stack of goodies in his arms. "Like Team Indulge Lemon's Cravings and Team Figure Out How to Get These Kids to Sleep Once They Arrive."

A dull groan evicts from me. "We still can't get Lyla Nell to sleep and she's going to be two come March."

It's true. Lyla Nell loves sleep about as much as she loves her puréed dinners. Lyla Nell is my sweet baby girl whom I share with my ex, Noah Fox. Although the word ex sounds harsh, so I never ever use it when it comes to Noah. As it stands, Lyla Nell calls both Noah and Everett Daddy and no one is complaining.

Our older daughter Evie is watching Lyla Nell tonight for us. Now that Evie is between semesters at Ashford University, she's come home for the holidays. And boy, am I ever glad to have her. I've missed her so much ever since she moved into the dorms.

Speaking of children… I bite down on my lip as I contemplate what a biological whirlwind Everett and I have been through these past few weeks since we found out that he has not one or two other children out in the world—but a whopping four .

Everett bought one of those DNA kits for us all to take last month, mostly for kicks, but also to see if he and I shared any genes—a horror story in and of itself. The long and short of it, we don't. But apparently, Everett does share DNA with four other people—as in he's the father of four other humans running around on the planet.

Everett was a playboy before we met, and let's just say his playboy days are coming home to roost—in the form of very young children.

"All right," Everett grunts as he opens up the back door to the facility—"we'll drop these off and then we're making a beeline to the Tavern on the Lake. Where my beautiful wife and I will actually have a dinner date."

" Ooh ." I wiggle my shoulders at him. "I like the sound of that. Is it too soon to hope for a kiss at the end of that date?"

"Oh, honey, you don't have to wait a single second." He leans my way, and just before he lands a wet one right on my lips, a man dressed as an elf bullets out of the door and runs between the two of us, almost causing every last gingerbread house to topple right out of Everett's arms.

"Hey, watch where you're going, buddy," I call out with a laugh.

Everett glances in the direction I'm looking in and shakes his head.

"Who are you talking to?"

"That man," I say. "He was wearing a little green outfit and yellow tights. And his ears were at least six inches tall and pointy as can be. Looks like someone went all out with the elf costume tonight."

Everett tips his head and his expression grows stern—a markedly delicious look on him.

And just like that, I've got a whole new craving.

A thought hits me. "Oh no," I groan.

"Oh yes," he growls. "Let's hope it's not true." He glares out at the parking lot.

"Because if that little elf was more of a little ghost "—I gasp again— "then that means…"

He nods. "That means murder."