“A bakery? Of course, I’ll stop by.” Verity leans back to take me and my enormous belly in just as the baby gives a strong kick and I buck to hold it. My little sugar cookie always seems to have impeccable timing. “A stripper who bakes?” She shakes her head. “Try not to have the baby while you’re here, hon.” She gives a sly wink. “If there’s one thing I won’t stand for, it’s being upstaged by a kid.”
“You won’t have to worry about Lottie having that baby. She’s not due until next month, and I’m betting that baby isn’t going anywhere until spring at least if not summer.” Mom gives a nervous titter, and I shoot her the stink eye for placing that delayed baby pox on me.
All of a sudden the women around us give a collective gasp and trot to the entry of the conservatory as if the room just erupted in flames. A redhead enters the room, much to the delight of the women flocking around her, and she’s quickly engulfed with the mob as if she were the most important person on the planet.
“Oh, look!” Mom gasps herself as she points in that direction. “Bambi Bailey just stepped into the room. She’s the world-famous gossip—”
“I know who she is,” Verity snips as she stalks off in that direction, but before she can get ten steps away, a blonde with a fitted dress and sparkling bangles running up one arm blocks her path.
I can’t help admiring how cute the smaller blonde is in that dress she’s wearing—or more to the point, the dress she has seemingly painted onto her torso. The dress is pink with tiny red hearts dotting it, and a part of me wonders if I’ll ever get to wear something so fitted again.
As it stands, my body has stretched out to the size of a barn, and the fact I eat a cake a night—with a little help from Carlotta and Evie, and I do mean a little—well, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t bode well for my fitted dress future.
The short blonde says something to Verity, and Verity becomes enraged before stalking off. I watch as the short blonde glares in Verity’s direction long after she’s gone, and it looks as if there wasn’t a lot of love lost between them.
Good thing the focus of the hour is loving ourselves. With Cormack and Cressida’s friends, that might just be the only kind of love that exists in this room.
“Welp.” Carlotta snaps up a platter of my raspberry tarts. “My fans await. Who knew I’d be a famous author overnight? Carlotta Sawyer, author extraordinaire.”
The blonde snaps her head in our direction before trotting our way.
“Excuse me, but did you just say Carlotta Sawyer? As in the expert on how to snag a man?”
“That would be me.” Carlotta winks over at my mother. And to my surprise, I think Mom just growled at her in return.
“I’m Sugar Hartley.” The blonde quickly shakes Carlotta’s hand. “I just opened the Head over Heels Bookshop down at the end of Main Street. Today was actually supposed to be my grand opening. I’d love to feature your book. In fact, I’d love to schedule a signing.”
“You just opened a bookstore on Main Street?” I marvel. “Congratulations. I have a bakery on Main Street as well. Feel free to stop by if you need anything at all, even if it’s a strong cup of coffee.”
“Thank you. I will. It’s an all romance bookshop. Run by a woman for women.” She lifts her chin with a touch of pride.
Mom gasps. “I write romance! I have an entire trilogy of hot and spicy books, and I just published my very first beachy romance, Whispering Sands. Book one of the Whispering Sands series.”
“You’ll both have to stop by,” Sugar insists. “Actually, swing by tomorrow and we’ll set it all up.”
Mom and Carlotta assure her they’ll be there with bells on before Carlotta takes off to appease her legion of fans, and Mom takes off to manage this circus.
I lean toward Sugar. “I’m sorry, did you say today was supposed to be your grand opening?”
She frowns over toward Verity. “That’s right. I had a big to-do scheduled, but Verity, well, she’s my oldest friend, and here I am. Some people just don’t care to share the spotlight. Excuse me, those raspberry tarts look inspiring.”
She takes off, and I glance toward the entry once again to find Verity glowering at the redhead my mother quasi-introduced as Bambi Bailey. She’s a stockier woman, stunning features, a head full of glossy crimson hair—more of a cartoon shade of red than anything nature could have gifted her. She’s wearing a dress that looks retro in style, full skirt, fitted bodice, as if she had just plucked it out of the sixties, and there’s a frenetic energy about her that seems to magnetize the people in the room her way. But come to think of it, so does Verity.
I’m not sure why anyone is so out of their minds to see either of those girls. I guess I’m just not in the know anymore. I’ve got a baby on the way and a boyfriend and a husband both locking horns with the law at the moment. I don’t have the energy to care about meeting an influencer guru or gossipmonger.
I turn back toward the dessert table to check on my raspberry tarts and spot the brunette that was arguing with Verity
