Her smile was reassuring. “That is more than okay. I did not mean to imply that you aren’t welcome.”
She said it so matter-of-factly that I had no choice but to accept her word. I smiled back, and she sprang right back into action. “I’ll get out all the items you will need. Do you have any favorite biscuits from the restaurant?”
I relaxed further as I answered that question, plus more of them that had nothing to do with biscuits, marveling at the way she seemed genuinely interested in my answers.
By the time Monny wheeled into the kitchen, I thought Cara Lott might know more about me than I did.
We both glanced at him briefly, on the same page about not showing too much concern, but he didn’t give us any reason to worry as he clapped his hands together. “Ya ready to learn the Lott family secrets?”
“Yes, sir.” He had no idea how true that was.
Mrs. Lott squeezed my arm once more as she left, and a couple hours later, I had a full stomach, sides that hurt from laughing at Monny’s endless jokes, and—most surprising of all—a freshly lit vat of outrage. After we said our goodbyes and I thanked them for the food they bundled into my arms, I drove right back to Dad’s house and had pulled into the driveway before I remembered that he’d be at work by now.
With a groan, I did the thing I thought I’d never do again and drove to Fortuna, where I walked straight to his office witha plastic container of biscuits in one hand and a glass jar of homemade fig preserves clutched in the other.
“Dad,” I said by way of greeting after he let me in, looking bewildered.
“Hey, Rich, I’m gonna have to call you back. No. Yes. I really am,” he said in a firm tone before clicking his earpiece to end whatever call he’d been on, then taking the piece out completely.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Those damn steps,” I said, plopping the biscuits and preserves down on his desk. “Why isn’t there a damn ramp? Someone could hurt themselves.” I started pacing his office, waving my hands in front of me as I spoke. “And not only that, but why can’t everyone just go in and get a damn coffee if they want to? Even if it’s not as good as Caffeina.”
Dad nodded slowly, doing his best to act like he was on the same planet as me.
“I need the name and number of that building manager, if you have it,” I said as I walked over to his desk and peeled off the lid to the container. “That’s what I meant to say.”
I shoved a biscuit into my mouth, hoping its half dozen fellows would make room for it in my stomach. “Want one?” I garbled around a mouthful, imagining Bree’s look of disgust. “They’re dismal.”
Dad laughed but accepted the biscuit and sat down at his desk to eat it with far more grace than I could muster.
Especially with the outrage still burning inside me.
I don’t know why it overcame me so suddenly or how its grip was so tight, but now that it was there, it would not be ignored.
Dad reached over and got another biscuit from the container as he scrolled his phone. “Here it is, though I’m not sure calling them will help.”
“Why not?” I asked, the fire under my ass cooling slightly.
“Because I already did.”
Stunned, I sat back in my chair. “When?”
“After you left. I called to gather some basic information and see how the downtown businesses were divided and how ownership worked.” He took another bite of his second biscuit and moaned obscenely, and I bore it as penance for my earlier lusty face. “That is so good. Gonna have to run this evening.”
“I’ll join you.”
“Right,” he said, dusting off his hands. “I already asked about the stairs. Thegentlemanon the phone said that Bay Hall was, in fact, accessible by wheelchair.”
I scoffed. “How do they figure?”
Dad looked more and more unimpressed the longer he spoke. “They say there’s a lift that can be used to get to the stairs.”
I threw my hands in the air. “And who operates it? Where even is it?”
“I asked the same questions,” he replied grimly. “Apparently it’s at the back of the connecting building, and you have to call ahead to request it.”
“That’s some bullshit.” I imagined Monny—proud, funny Monny—going through all of that for a fucking cup of coffee or an empanada. My mood wasn’t helped by the knowledge that before spending time with him, I’d only felt mild annoyance at the steps. “And they won’t put in a ramp?”
