Page 4 of Daddy's Naughty Author

“What would have happened if you never found it? Would you still be there?”

“That’s the whole point. We will find it.” The way he emphasized will has the hair on my arms standing up. “Anyway,I’m glad you were able to rearrange your schedule for this morning.”

“About that…” The text I sent him yesterday was tongue in cheek. “I didn’t have a schedule to rearrange. The only thing I’m doing at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning is sleeping.”

“Not a morning person?”

“Not at all. You?” I reply honestly.

“Very much so. I’ve been trained to be. PE is at zero dark thirty in the morning. We wake before the sun rises.”

“Well, like they say, opposites attract.”

“They do say that.” He responded with a small smile as he parks his truck.

The bell above the coffee shop door jingles its own cheerful greeting as we enter. We weave through clusters of tables, most occupied by patrons lost in their laptops or deep into intimate conversations. I lead KC towards the small booth in the very back corner. I know it well, it’s my favorite spot to write.

I catch the eye of Linda, my favorite barista, and gesture towards her arm. The artful tattoo sleeve she’s been working on has fresh ink. I give her a thumbs up. She smiles wildly and I know she’ll be over in a minute to talk to me all about the new addition and spill the tattoo parlor drama. As an author, I’m a people watcher and I live for these conversations.

“Want your normal?” she asks loudly, and I nod.

“What about you?” She asks KC.

“Americano, no room,” he says. “And one of your breakfast burritos.”

“Your normal?” He asks after we settle into the seats.

“Yeah, I’m a regular. I write here several times a week. I normally come in after their morning rush and stay until about three or so. That’s when the schools let out and the moms come in to grab coffee before pickup.”

“I see,” he said. “I’ve been a few times but normally right when they open. Their espresso is the best in town. It’s smooth. What do you get?” He inquires.

“An iced brown sugar oat milk latte with an extra shot and cinnamon.”

“Oat milk? How do you get milk from oats?”

“I don’t know but however they do it, it’s delicious.” I keep the details about my body’s reaction to milk to myself. It’s never a good time to talk about the effects of lactose intolerance. “I used to bring my own cup for them to fill, but it had an unfortunate accident last week.”

Linda grins as she places our coffee in front of us, aware of the story.

“How exactly does a cup have an accident?”

“It got run over by a garbage truck.”

“Wait, what?”

I sigh dramatically. “So, this one time…”

“At band camp?”

I moan. “You don’t have any kids, do you?”

“What? No. You’d know if I had kids, we’re neighbors, remember?” He says, clearly confused by my change of topic.

“Just making sure, since you have so many dad jokes at the ready.”

He chokes on his sip of coffee and shakes his head at me. “Your cup?” He brings the conversation back around.

“Oh, it happened here actually. I accidentally drove off with the cup on top of my car. I noticed when the garbage truck behind me honked. Unfortunately, by then, it’d been squashed. It was really too bad. Not only did it keep my drinks at the perfect temperature, but it also had a built-in straw I loved.”

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