Spells & Stitches by Barbara Bretton

that you were talking to by your truck?”
    I stared at her like English was my second language. “What?”
    She gave me a patient smile. “That woman you were talking to near the truck. Was she a friend of yours?”
    Crap. Had she actually seen us talking to Elspeth? There was no way I could explain the existence of a three-foot-tall troll with hair the color of a yellow cab.
    “A business acquaintance owns the inn,” I said, stumbling all over my words. It wasn’t an answer, but maybe Bunny wouldn’t notice.
    Fat chance of that.
    “So she’s the owner?”
    “One of the workers.”
    “I feel like I’ve seen her before.”
    I shot Bunny a look. “Have you been to the inn before?”
    “Never, but there was something very familiar about her. I actually thought she looked a bit like Betty White.” She gave a little laugh. “Oh, well. That’s what happens when you get to be my age, honey. Sooner or later everyone looks familiar.”
    Luke and I were surrounded by a mob of people the second we stepped into the dining room, most of whom bore at least a fleeting resemblance to the father of my baby. Tall. Good-looking. Gregarious. And did I mention loud?
    They were also the huggingest bunch I’d ever met. I was passed from one pair of arms to the next like a giant stuffed toy as faces and names flew past at the speed of light.
    Ten seconds and already I was in family overload. All of the prep work I’d done on Facebook flew right out the window. They could have been the Trapp Family Singers or the Brady Bunch for all I could comprehend. Score another one for pregnancy brain.
    I looked toward Luke for support but he was equally surrounded by MacKenzies of varying ages and sizes, most of whom were reading him the riot act for staying away for so long. He caught my eye and gave me one of those I told you so looks that would have made me laugh if I hadn’t been drowning in questions.
    I started throwing answers out there like Frisbees, hoping against hope the right MacKenzie would catch them.
    “I’m in my ninth month ... a girl ... no, we don’t have a name yet ... we’re not married ... no, we’re not engaged ... yes, we’re totally committed ... I don’t know ... I don’t know ... Help! ”
    I didn’t actually scream “help,” but I came close. I’d chaired contentious town hall meetings with ghosts, vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, witches, and a sleep-deprived mountain giant that were easier.
    Not to mention a whole lot quieter.
    A pregnant woman around my age put her arm around me and leaned close. “I don’t know about you, Chloe, but if I don’t eat something in the next thirty seconds I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”
    “I don’t know who you are,” I said, “but if you lead me to the Belgian waffles, I’ll send your kid to Harvard.” Even if the waffles did smell an awful lot like Elspeth.
    “I’m Kim Davenport, Luke’s older sister and I just might take you up on your offer.”
    I looked down at her moderate bump. “April?” I asked.
    “Tax Day.” She rolled her eyes. “How’s that for timing?”
    “I can beat that,” I said. “Try January first.”
    She burst into laughter. “I love it! Little brother misses out on a big deduction.”
    “You’re the financial analyst, right?”
    “Guilty.”
    She led me toward a table groaning with waffles, pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and every baked good you could possibly imagine. An omelet station occupied the far corner of the room, right near an open bar serving delicious-looking mimosas.
    “I’d kill for one of those,” Kim said.
    “I’m a wine-in-the-box kind of girl myself, but I could definitely use one or three of them.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    I arched a brow in her direction. “At least you don’t need name tags to keep everyone straight.”
    “Want to bet?” she tossed back. “This is maybe half the clan. Just wait until you experience a MacKenzie Thanksgiving.”
    “I’ll be