Sinfully Delicious Read online

  Sinfully Delicious

  A Two Broomsticks Gas & Grill Witch Cozy Mystery

  Amanda M. Lee

  WinchesterShaw Publications

  Copyright © 2020 by Amanda M. Lee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty-One

  22. Twenty-Two

  23. Twenty-Three

  24. Twenty-Four

  25. Twenty-Five

  26. Twenty-Six

  27. Twenty-Seven

  28. Twenty-Eight

  29. Twenty-Nine

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  Prologue

  12 Years Ago

  “The day your mother was born was the worst day of my life. Do you want to know why? I’m going to tell you.”

  My grandfather worked behind the huge industrial stove, his eyes meeting mine next to the order wheel. He was cooking today rather than holding court at the coffee counter, because my uncle had called in sick. Days when my grandfather mastered the griddle were both the worst and best days to work.

  They were the best because he insisted waitresses not wash dishes so they wouldn’t dirty their uniforms. When my uncle was in charge, everybody had to help with the dishes — and it sucked. My grandfather, however, believed in looking professional above all else. That was a minor treat, though. In exchange, the days were the worst because he told endless stories (and occasionally threw bread when things didn’t go his way). I couldn’t have a single moment to myself as he insisted on spinning yarns that I’d heard at least fifty times each during the course of my sixteen years. I’d heard at least thirty variations of this particular story.

  “It was the worst day of your life because it also happened to be the first day of deer season,” I answered without thinking. “It was snowing just enough for you to be able to make out tracks, but not so cold you would’ve frozen your nuts off — which was probably a good thing for all your other kids, huh?” I flashed a smile that I didn’t really feel. “And, of course, she was a girl and you wanted a boy. Missing deer season for a girl is simply unacceptable.”

  Grandpa met my gaze with a dark one of his own. “I’m going to tell you the story the way I want to tell it,” he snapped. “And, just for the record, I was fine with your mother being a girl. If she says otherwise, she’s lying.”

  I knew better. Grandpa had gotten drunk a time or two and admitted that he had melted down about missing deer season for the birth of a girl. Apparently he would’ve been fine missing it for a boy, but a girl was something else entirely. I liked to think karma was listening that day, because the baby that was born the following December — forcing him to miss another deer season opener — was also a girl.

  “Uh-huh.” I tapped the counter next to the ticket I’d given him minutes ago. “Do you have my eggs and bacon?”

  Grandpa’s eyes narrowed. Charles Archer hated being rushed. “I’m working on it.” He turned his back was to me and focused on the griddle. It was a busy morning at the Two Broomsticks Gas & Grill in Shadow Hills, Michigan. The leaves were just starting to fall, signaling our busy season was right around the corner. Given our location in northern Lower Michigan, we had exactly two seasons to make money: summer, when all the golfers came to town to hang out at the neighboring resorts, and winter, when the skiers and snowmobilers flocked to the surrounding hills and trails. Sure, people visited in the spring and fall, but two seasons could make or break every business in the area.

  “You know what your problem is?” Grandpa called over his shoulder.

  “Yes, I’ve been waiting for my bacon and eggs twice as long as necessary,” I drawled, rubbing my forearm against my forehead and glancing at the clock on the wall. My shift ended in an hour. I had a paper due for English class and I hadn’t even started it. I should go straight home after my shift and hit the writing. That wasn’t going to happen, though. My boyfriend Hunter Ryan was picking me up so we could hang out for a few hours. I had been looking forward to that more than anything else all shift, including no longer smelling like a grease trap thanks to my proximity to the deep fryers.

  “Your problem is that you’re exactly like your mother,” Grandpa shot back. “Why do you think she named you Stormy Breeze Morgan?”

  I’d been wondering that very thing for most of my life. “I think she secretly hated me for twenty-five hours of labor and that’s how she paid me back,” I replied without hesitation.

  “Wrong. She was always going to name you Stormy. I tried talking her into giving you a normal name, but she was having none of it. Do you want to know why?”

  He was big on asking questions to which he provided his own answers. It drove me insane at times. “I just told you why.”

  “And I told you that’s not why. Listen.” He reached through the order window and flicked the spot between my eyebrows before I realized what was happening, earning a yelp and a glare for his efforts. “Your mother named you Stormy Breeze to irritate me.”

  Oh, well, this was a new variation. “Really? She saddled me with this stupid name because of you? How so?”

  He looked around, perhaps to see if anybody was listening, and lowered his voice. “She’s a hippie.”

  I pressed my lips together, unsure how to respond. “She’s a hippie?” I asked, amusement and annoyance warring in my busy brain. Seriously, why couldn’t he just cook the eggs and bacon? Why was I being forced to listen to this when I wanted to think about other things ... like homework and Hunter (although not necessarily in that order)?

  “She’s a hippie,” he confirmed, bobbing his head. He said it in a manner that indicated he thought it was a big deal. “She left the family business. You know that.”

  I was thrilled about that little development. Working with my grandfather, aunts, uncles, and cousins was difficult enough. Working with my mother on top of everything else would’ve sent me over the edge. “I’m well aware she left the family business,” I said dryly. “She didn’t like being a waitress.”

  Grandpa’s expression darkened. “Yes, even though that business is the reason she had shoes on her feet and clothes on her back the entire time she was growing up.”

  And here it was. He just wanted to rant about Mom quitting the diner. No matter how many shifts we worked together, the conversation always turned to Mom and her lack of appreciation. It was frustrating — and sometimes funny, because I enjoyed complaining about my mother almost as much as he did. “She doesn’t want to be a waitress,” I said, tapping the open ticket again for emphasis. “Cook my eggs.”

  “I’m doing it.” He glared at me. “What’s wrong with waitressing? You’re a waitress and you’re happy.”

  “I’m not happy being a waitress,” I argued. “I don’t mind the money. And I can tolerate smelling like French fries five days a week because Hunter thinks it’s better than perfume. But it’s not as if this is my dre
am job.”

  “Oh, really?” Grandpa folded his arms across his stained apron. “Just what is your dream job?”

  That was a good question. “I think I want to be a writer.”

  Grandpa looked horrified at the prospect. “A writer? Like, a reporter?”

  I shook my head. “I want to write books.”

  His expression twisted. “That’s not a real job.”

  “Says who?”

  “Um ... everybody who has ever tried to be a writer. I don’t like the idea of you sitting around writing sex scenes for those stupid bodice-rippers all the women read.”

  Now it was my turn to frown. “You know that women can write different sorts of books, right? Just because Grandma likes her romance novels on the kinky side doesn’t mean there aren’t other things to write about.”

  Grandpa straightened his tall frame and looked around to see if anyone had heard the tidbit I’d dropped about my grandmother. When he lowered himself again, his expression was dark. “First off, your grandmother doesn’t read filth.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Second, nobody needs to know that your grandmother reads filth,” he hissed, extending a warning finger. “That’s a secret.”

  “I’m sorry that Grandma reads filth,” I said dryly. I knew the books he was talking about. She had a whole stack of them next to her bed. I had a few theories about why, but I figured that was a conversation I could never share with my grandfather if I didn’t want to die of embarrassment. “Not all women read romance novels. And not all women writers write romance novels.”

  “Of course not. That’s ridiculous. Some authors write westerns ... and war books ... and biographies. Those are good books.”

  I knew what he was saying without saying it. “You mean male authors.”

  He pretended an air of innocence. “I didn’t say that.” He focused on the griddle, where the bacon hissed and popped. “Why do you always jump to the men-versus-women thing? It’s ridiculous and, frankly, a little insulting. Not everything boils down to ovaries and testicles.”

  My mouth fell open and I felt the color rushing to my cheeks. “I can’t believe you just said that!”

  “What?” His brow furrowed. “It’s the truth. You should know by now that men and women have different plumbing.”

  He had to be joking. “Of course I know that!” I was scandalized. “I don’t even understand how we got on this topic. I know about the different parts.”

  Grandpa’s shoulders stiffened. “How do you know about the parts? You haven’t seen them, have you?”

  I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation. “Cook the bacon and eggs!”

  He ignored the demand. “It’s that Ryan boy, isn’t it? Hunter. That’s his first name. You two have been joined at the hip of late. You’re not joining anywhere else, are you?”

  I couldn’t find the words to respond because I was certain my cheeks had burst into flames.

  “Maybe I should have a talk with the boy,” Grandpa mused. “He’s big and sturdy, like a maple tree, but if I catch him off guard I might be able to get the drop on him.”

  “You’re going to get the drop on him?” I couldn’t believe he was still talking. “This isn’t some cop movie, and you won’t do anything to him. He hasn’t done anything wrong. You need to just ... stop talking about this.”

  I don’t care how enlightened you are — I was raised by a loose-lipped mother who thought we should talk frequently about absolutely everything, including menstruation and the female body’s erogenous zones — there are some things you should not discuss with a grandparent. It should be outlawed.

  “I’m not trying to embarrass you,” Grandpa fired back.

  “Well, you’re doing a great job of it.”

  He pretended not to hear me. “If that boy is putting the moves on you ... .”

  “Who even says that any longer?” I challenged. “You’re showing your age, Grandpa.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t work on me.” He was blasé. “Your mother can be manipulated by the age thing. Even though she’s a hippie, tree-loving, pain in the keister, she’s vain. You can tell by how often she looks in the mirror. I don’t care about the age. I believe in being who you are no matter your age.”

  I was over this conversation. “Well, great. Finish my bacon and eggs. I’ve probably already lost this tip.”

  “I said I was working on it.” His eyes flashed with annoyance. “You get more and more like your mother every day. You know that, right?”

  He meant it as an insult, and that’s how I took it. “I just want my bacon and eggs,” I complained. “Why can’t you just give me my bacon and eggs?”

  He smirked. “Your mother does that whiny thing, too.”

  He knew exactly how to irritate me. “Okay, listen here, Grandpa.” I lowered my voice to barely a hiss. “If you don’t get me my bacon and eggs, I’ll tell Grandma you’ve been reading her books for tips but not using them.”

  It took him a second to realize my threat. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Try me.” I’d had enough. “I just want my bacon and eggs, for crying out loud. I want this shift to end. Then I want to leave with my boyfriend and spend a few hours hanging out without worrying about anything.

  “You know what I really want, though?” I’d learned how to rant from him, so I was a pro. My talent was on full display today. “What I really want is not to have to work with family anymore. I mean ... is that not the absolute worst?”

  “I like working with family,” he fired back. “It’s fun.”

  “No, it’s not.” I couldn’t let it go now that I’d started. “It’s not fun at all. It’s loud ... and annoying ... and everybody always fights. When someone calls in sick, family has to cover. When you’re in a bad mood, family knows exactly how to make it worse — and they enjoy doing it. Strangers wouldn’t even know where to start on something like that.”

  “Working with strangers is highly overrated,” Grandpa muttered. “Working with family is the best of both worlds. You say it’s annoying because family members always know how to make your day worse. They also know how to make it better, and if things are really bad, they go out of their way to make it better. Strangers don’t do that.”

  He had a point. “I still hate it. The only thing I can say with any degree of certainty is that when I get older I’m not working with family. That’s all there is to it. I’m going to do something else, be someone else.”

  “Like your mother?” Grandpa’s expression darkened further. “You really are like her.”

  “I’m not. I don’t want to be like her either. I want to be my own person.”

  “Well, I hope that works out for you.” His slapped the eggs and bacon on a chipped plate and slid it to me. “Just remember, family is people who have to take you back when your dreams fall apart. Something tells me you’re going to need to remember that.”

  His jab wasn’t lost on me. “I’ll remember. But I’m never coming back here. As soon as I graduate high school, I’m heading to college and never looking back. Mark my words, Shadow Hills will just be a place I visit every five years or so.”

  Grandpa snorted, disdain on full display. “Adulthood rarely turns out the way you think it will.”

  “Oh, I’m going to make it happen. I promise. This is not going to be my life. You have my word.”

  “Good luck with that. You’re going to need it.”

  One

  Present Day

  “Stormy, you have three orders stacked. Get a move on.”

  My uncle Brad peered through the window between the order wheel and spice rack and caught my gaze.

  “Did you hear me?” he pressed when I didn’t immediately respond. “All of these are your orders.”

  I glanced at the jumble of plates and sighed. They claim you never forget how to waitress; it’s like riding a bike. They’re right. I remembered all of my shortcuts from when I was a teenager. Unfortunately, I was severely lacking
in the speed department, and it was beginning to show. Apparently that was going to take some dedicated concentration.

  “I’m on it.” I transferred the first two orders to the same tray and shifted it to carry with my left arm. “I’ll be back for the other order in a second.”

  “Hurry up.” Brad’s gaze was serious as he regarded me. “It’s not even the lunch rush yet. You need to get it together.”

  “I said I was on it,” I snapped, agitation coming out to play. It was my first day on the job — er, well, it was my first day back on the job — and I was still bitter about the turn my life had taken. That wasn’t my uncle’s fault, of course. That didn’t mean I wasn’t keen to lash out at someone, though, and turning my frustration inward was no longer an option because I was already bruised and battered from all the internal loathing I’d unleashed on myself. “I’ll be right back.”

  I swung through the double doors that led to the cafe side of the restaurant and headed to my table. Two women, both in their thirties and with sleeping babies in car seats propped up next to them on booth benches, stopped talking as I approached. It was obvious they’d been gossiping and didn’t want me to overhear. I was fine with that. There’s little I hated more than gossip.

  Okay, that’s a lie. I love gossip. Still, I didn’t recognize the women, and it’s only fun to gossip if you know who is being talked about behind his or her back.

  “Grilled chicken salad, no croutons, and ranch on the side,” I announced, delivering the first plate. “Toasted tuna on rye, two extra pickles on the side,” I said to the other woman as I slid the plate in front of her.” I kept my smile in place, even though it was a chore, and glanced between the women. “Do you need anything else right now?”