“You can’t bring that in there.”
I resisted the urge to swear and turned around. The security guard shining her light into Dani Couture‘s bag was shaking her head. My ticket had already been scanned, but I turned and walked back to the doors. Despite the pleasant fog of four glasses of pinot grigio, which I’d downed during Prohibition’s “hooch hour” earlier in the evening, I accepted my responsibility for the trouble Dani was having getting in. It was at least half my fault.
“They’re chocolate chips. I was going to make cookies later.” Dani was trying to appeal to reason.
The security …