Poison Apple Crisp by Addison Moore (Murder in the Mix #25)
English | 2020| Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 3.3 MB
She worked as a therapist on a locked psychiatric unit for nearly a decade. She resides on the West Coast with her husband, four wonderful children, and two dogs where she eats too much chocolate and stays up way too late. When she’s not writing, she’s reading.
Noah Corbin Fox was my steady boyfriend for a good long spate of time. He’s handsome to a fault with his dark hair that turns a touch crimson in the sun. He has mesmerizing green eyes and deep dimples that are so adorable they should be illegal in all fifty states.
He’s the lead homicide detective down at the Ashford County Sheriff’s Department, and he’s spent the better half of the two years I’ve known him trying to make up for the fact he had a wife he was keeping a secret from me. Well, it wasn’t as bad as I’m painting it to be, but it sure did mark the beginning of the end for us.
And then there’s Everett—Judge Essex Everett Baxter. He’s criminally good-looking in just about every way. You know the type, black hair, demanding blue eyes, hardly ever smiles, a touch too serious, a touch too lethally handsome. He prefers to go by his middle name, Everett, and uses his formal moniker as sort of a door prize to the myriad of women he’s bedded. Yes, I’ve certainly garnered the right to call him Essex, but prior to our mattress mambo, I was already used to calling him Everett, so I’ve just stuck with it.
I’ve seen women get darn right caustic trying to crane their necks to get a better look at either of those men, and I can’t say I blame them.
Both Noah and Everett have about five years on me, putting them at about their mid-thirties.
And fun fact: I’ve been married to them both. Noah and I more or less walked into the institution backward. Not surprisingly, Everett was the one that helped us untangle that legal knot. And then last December, when I found out Everett was one bride short of being able to collect on his inheritance, I stepped up to the matrimonial plate. That’s where I am today—married to Everett. It started out as a technicality, nothing more than a business arrangement, but so far neither of us is hitting the brakes.
The bell on the front door chimes and my insides knot up, because as soon as my sister and bestie arrive, it will be showtime. I’ll have to spill the beans, and my secret will be a secret no more.
But it’s not either of them. Instead, it’s a trio of women, a redhead, a brunette, and a blonde. And down by their feet prances a fuzzy cinnamon-colored Pomeranian who just so happens to look as if he or she is smiling ear to fuzzy ear.
My co-worker, Lily Swanson, crops up next to me.
“It’s okay, Lottie. I got this,” she says. “You can go hang out with your family and friends.”
“Oh no, I’ve got this, Lily. You can take a break. I’ll be leaving early tonight and you’re closing, remember?”