Wicked Whoopie Pies by Addison Moore (english novels to improve english TXT) 📕

of gasps circles the room, and this time it’s the majority of the congregation participating in the breathy endeavor.

“She’s flaunting her sinful lifestyle, right in our faces,” an irate woman shouts from somewhere to our left. And try as I might to make out her face, her identity remains buried in the shadows.

Honey Hollow Covenant is more or less designed to look like a mega church, only on much less of a mega scale, with its stadium seating and interlocking plush chairs and a raised stage at the front of the room. People come from neighboring towns to attend services here because it’s just that beautiful.

“We know what goes on behind closed doors,” another woman shouts.

“She doesn’t even know who the father is!” a man joins in on the verbal tarring and feathering, and both Noah’s and Everett’s chests blow up in size as if they were about to dive into a bar brawl.

“That’s not true,” I say. “We had a paternity test just last week on live television. And, well, even though the host read the wrong name during the big reveal, I can assure you we very much know that Noah Fox is the biological father. But make no mistake about it, Lyla Nell is every bit as much Everett’s daughter.” My voice spikes with both anger and frustration as I say it. I can’t help it. I’ve been dealing with this bull from everyone in Vermont for the last nine months, and I’m running off two minutes of sleep. “The three of us are raising Lyla Nell together—just like we do everything else together.”

The congregation lets out a collective groan just as my fingers fly to my lips because that’s not what I meant to say at all—or at least imply.

Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have laid so much emphasis on those last three words.

Maybe I should have opted to dedicate the baby in private.

“You will be judged for this behavior one day,” someone calls from the back, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at that one because it sure as heck feels as if that’s happening right here and now.

“Time out!” Carlotta shouts as she crawls over, steps on, and shoves out of the way an entire row of gray-haired grannies, along with my mother, my sisters, Suze, and Wiley. She stumbles her way up to the pulpit, plucks the microphone from Pastor Dave’s hand, and looks out at the congregation with an ornery look in her eye that almost always spells out trouble.

Trouble for the world—regret for me.

Carlotta, my aforementioned birth mother, and I share the same caramel-colored wavy locks, same hazel eyes, and same penchant for seeing right through to the other side of the heavenly veil. The only major difference between us is the gray hair and crow’s feet she’s got on me—and I’m not looking forward to catching up to her in that department. She’s far zanier than me or anyone else I know, by a mile, and I don’t plan on emulating her in that department either.

“Lookie here!” Carlotta belts out the words like a punishment as she gives the crowd the stink eye. She’s wearing one of my old floral maternity dresses and has it cinched at the waist with a belt. Carlotta’s been helping herself to my wardrobe for as long as she’s been living with me, and that seems to be going on for sixteen decades now. “Which one of you ladies is innocent enough to cast the first high heel?” she growls. “I would have included the menfolk in that equation, but I’ve been around the block a time or two and I know what you’re capable of. You can’t so much as throw a pebble at these fine folks up here. Sure, Lot Lot is my kin, but I’m not doin’ her any favor by putting on a dog and pony show. I mean what I say.”

Kin?

For some reason, the more agitated Carlotta gets, the more country-fried she gets as well. She not only grew up in Vermont, but she spent a fair amount of time in Arizona. The accent is an anomaly.

“Now look at these men,” she shouts so loud her voice reverberates off the walls. “Take a good look at Mr. Sexy. And take a good look at Foxy here, too,” she says as she calls them by the nicknames she’s gifted them. Okay, fine. Sexy was the nickname gifted to Everett by the baristas of this world, but they weren’t wrong and neither is she. “Who in this room could blame the girl for trying to trap not one but two men into staying in her life forever? Why do you think she dragged out that whole who’s your daddy thing for nine solid months and then some? Lot Lot had to dig her claws into them somehow.”

“Carlotta,” I hiss as I shake my head her way.

“Not now, Lot. I’m getting to the good part.” She waves me off and knocks Lyla Nell in the head with that microphone in the process. A horrible whoomp goes off from the collision and Lyla Nell gasps as her mouth squares out and she starts in on one of those high-pitched wails that breaks my heart to hear.

“Good going,” I mutter to Carlotta. Honestly, the microphone merely grazed the baby’s head, but that sound was enough to wake the dead.

Lyla Nell’s entire body seizes as she starts in on a shrill scream, so I do the only thing I know that will calm her down. I unbutton my blouse, fiddle with my bra, and get straight to nursing her.

Another round of gasps lights up the room and it takes a moment to register that my left boob is on full public display, right here in the heart of the holiest structure in all of Honey Hollow.

Carlotta pulls the mic to her lips. “In the event you’re wondering, she gets that rack from me.” There’s more than a touch of pride in her voice as