“So, invisible, but impressive,” Leo adds with a laugh.
Em nods. “She’s asking for several miracles,” Emmie corrects, pacing like mad. “She wants it catered but not catered-looking. Elegant but beachy. Sophisticated but approachable.”
“Maybe she wants it to fail,” Jasper says. “It gives her someone to blame.”
Emmie stops pacing. “You think?”
“I don’t think,” I say. “Iknowbecause I’ve met her.”
Emmie inches back as if she’s just been hit in the face with a pie.
Leo pulls Emmie in and brushes a kiss to her lips. “Then you’ll crush it. All of it. Every dish.”
“She’ll still find something wrong,” Emmie mutters.
“Of course, she will,” I say. “That’s part of the experience.”
Leo smiles. “Mackenzie will be the one who’s wrong. And we’ll all know it.”
Emmie unveils dish after dish—mini crab cakes with remoulade that make Biscuit Gravy actually whimper with joy, watermelon feta salad with mint and balsamic that’s so light and refreshing I could eat an entire bowl, blueberry balsamic chicken with rosemary that’s perfectly cooked and makes Jasper go back for seconds.
The babies are gettingincreasingly sticky and happy, tossing bits of food to the pets who have wisely positioned themselves like tiny furry vacuum cleaners. Elliot signs something in baby sign language, very official about it, and Ella watches him like he’s conducting a master class. She tries to copy him and ends up windmilling her arms like she’s summoning a storm, which, honestly, is on par for this family.
“They’re friends,” Emmie says with a laugh.
“Best friends,” I agree. “Let’s hope they’re the kind that share snacks and don’t keep secrets. Wild concept in today’s world. They’re going to be just like us.”
She tips her head. “Let’s hope with zero murders in their future.”
I make a face. “Bold of you to assume there won’t be murders.”
Jasper places his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs working small circles into the tension he finds there. “Tell me about Blaire.”
This man really does know which buttons to push to get me to do his bidding.
So I do. The handbag. The weak alibi. The way her thoughts screamed relief that Brittany was gone. The passive-aggressive cruelty wrapped up in perfect diction and designer clothing.
“But here’s the thing,” I say, accepting a strawberry shortcake parfait from Emmie that’s layered with pound cake, fresh whipped cream, and berries in a way that looks almost too pretty to eat. “Blaire won’t even eat carbs in public. You really think she’s going to risk a murder charge?”
Leo raises an eyebrow. “That’s your defense? She’s too vain?”
“I’m saying people who care that much about appearances don’t usually commit crimes that involve blood spatter.”
Emmie brings out the final dishes—mini beef Wellington bites that make everyone moan, blue cheese stuffed dates wrapped in prosciutto that shouldn’t work but absolutely do, and lemon blueberry tarts that are so good I immediately eat two.
The pets are getting increasingly spoiled, and Sherlock has abandoned all pretense of dignity in favor of sitting directly at Jasper’s feet with an expression that saysI’m starving, and if you don’t feed me, you’re a monster.
Of course, he’s fed, by all of us.
I’m never eating regular dog food again,Sherlock barks with glee.
Me neither. This is the life I was meant for,Biscuit Gravy agrees.
You’ll eat anything,Fish counters.Including that questionable thing you found in the parking lot yesterday. We still don’t know what it was.
Sherlock maintains it was “crunchy and delicious,” which narrows it down to approximately nothing helpful.
He lifts his chin.Doesn’t mean I can’t have standards when I want to.
