I feel the heat of that promise deep in my chest.
“I’ll be more than ready.”
Chapter Eleven
Lot
Date night dangerous.
Ienter the four-story low-rise, all glass and chrome accents. The medical offices weren’t here five years ago. It was just a vacant lot. But downtown Bayside’s been built up since then. Modernized, while still holding on to its small-town charm. That’s why Rayne and C push so hard for ethical development—growth that prevents big-box stores and high-rises from overrunning the town and tanking the local economy.
My mom waves from the downstairs coffee shop, tucked into a window booth, dressed in sage scrubs. Her new hairstyle is still sleek and on point, her eyes bright, and a hint of chocolate lipstick glosses her smile.
“Hi, Mom.” I lean in to kiss her cheek and smell it again—her dress-up perfume.
“How’s my baby girl?”
“I’m good.”
I grab our orders. A skim cappuccino for my mother and a dirty chai with an extra espresso shot for me. I’d been nearby at the printer when she texted that she needed to speak with me, so I suggested we meet on her break.
“There’s a glow about you,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her.
“Aw, thank you, honey.”
“I thought Maurice would be running you ragged.”
She frowns. “Your father hasn’t been any trouble. He’s as self-sufficient as ever. Just needs help with meals and getting upstairs. He misses work, though, and is chomping at the bit to get back. The doctor says physio will speed up his recovery. That’s what I wanted to ask you. Would you mind taking him to his morning appointments on Wednesdays and Fridays?”
I groan inside, then feel guilty. I came back to help and haven’t done much so far, other than babysit Docks. “Sure, no problem.”
“It’ll give you time together. Won’t that be nice?”
“Sounds like a murder waiting to happen.”
“Charlotte Mae Webber! What a terrible thing to say.”
“Sorry, Ma. Just kidding.”Kinda.
She gets quiet, which is Mom code forI’m about to bring up something you won’t want to hear.
“You and your dad are alike in some ways.”
I cough mid-sip, nearly spraying my coffee.
“It’s true,” she insists, sliding me a napkin. “You’re both stubborn. Opinionated. Always think you’re right and rarely bend.”
“I’m not like that.”
“Lot, my love. You are a tough nut to crack, and so is your father. You hold your cards close and your emotions even closer. I would never want you to change. You were my spunky little girl. Creative, a dreamer who marched to her own drum and spoke her mind whether anyone liked it or not.” She smiles. “I sometimes wished I was more like you.”
“You did?”
“Mm-hmm.” She takes a sip, eyes on me over the rim. “But I’d still like to see you soften a little. Let more love in.”
“Is this your way of telling me you want me to get married and have babies? Because you know that’s not going to happen.”
“I don’t need you to do either. Those choices are yours. But not getting married or having children doesn’t mean you can’t open your heart. Why haven’t you met any men in New York?”
