Ella sees the movement and immediately lunges forward,her chubby hands grabbing at air. She misses the skewer entirely and knocks over her sippy cup, which goes rolling across the tray of the high chair, and Emmie catches it before it hits the floor.
“Nice reflexes,” I say as she hands it to me.
“All these years of waitressing had to pay off somewhere.” She laughs.
Elliot, meanwhile, has carefully selected a single blueberry from his tray and is studying it with the intensity of a gemologist examining a diamond. He pops it in his mouth, chews thoughtfully, and nods like he’s just approved a vintage wine.
Elliot has discerning taste,Biscuit Gravy gives a soft bark.Unlike Ella, who just shoves everything in her mouth and hopes for the best.
He really does know her.
As if on cue, Ella grabs a fistful of fresh mozzarella and squishes it between her fingers, giggling as it oozes through.
“She’s exploring textures,” I say defensively.
“She’s making a happy mess,” Jasper counters, but he’s smiling when he says it, reaching over to wipe cheese off her chin. He nods my way. “Tell us about the boat full of suspects.”
“It was a boat full of suspects,” I say. “And let’s not forget Mackenzie.”
Emmie grunts. “I’d rather sail the open seas with a killer.”
I can’t help but chuckle.
Blaire Kensington comes to mind and I sober up. That was quite the conversation we had.
Leo clears his throat. “Blaire Kensington, did you say?”
“You don’t fight fair,” I say, shooting him with a frown.
Jasper looks between us. “All right. Share with the class. Not all of us are mind readers around here? It’s a bit creepy when you do that,” he says with a wink.
“It’s not creepy,” Leo and I say in perfect unison.
“It’s a little creepy,” Emmie adds, unveiling the third dish. “Mexican street corn elevated to fine dining, each cob slathered in chipotle-lime aioli, rolled in cotija cheese, and finished with chili-lime seasoning and fresh cilantro.”
The corn is perfectly charred, and the smell of smoky spice and citrus is making my mouth water.
Everyone reaches for a piece at once, and for a solid thirty seconds, the only sound is appreciative groaning.
This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,Sherlock announces,and I once found an entire pizza in a dumpster behind the inn!
That’s not something to be proud of,Fish says.Although I do appreciate you sharing.
Says the cat who ate three-day-old tuna from the trash,Sherlock fires back.And, by the way, thank you, too, for sharing and caring!
That was one time,Fish growls.And I was young and foolish.
I’m just sorry we were sick for three days straight,she mewls and I nod.And I’m sorry the vet bill was enough to put Ella through college.
Cinnamon and Gatsby have abandoned their positions and are now engaged in a tug-of-war with a rope toy in the corner, growling and play-fighting while the rest of us gorge ourselves on all things delicious.
Amateurs,Fish observes, watching them.If you’re going to fight over something, make sure it’s food. Toys don’t fill your stomach. Although apparently hair does.
She wretches for a moment and I give her a look that saysplease anywhere but here.
“Mackenzie wants twelve dishes,” Emmie says, like she’s reporting a crime. “Twelve. For fifty people. On a beach. In July.”
“She’s not asking for food,” I say. “She’s asking for a miracle.”
