Page 69 of Love and History

I sifted through the yellowed pages, smiling at old photos. After a while, I concentrated on the recipes—meatloaf with mushrooms, chicken and lentil chili, lasagna with spicy sausage.

Tap, tap.

“Hi, there.”

I glanced up at Holden and did a double take. “Damn, you’re hot.”

He rubbed the patches on his elbows as he moved into the room. “You really like this sweater, don’t you?”

“It’s a mystery, but yeah…I do.”

“Well, itishigh fashion,” he singsonged, hiking his thumb toward the door. “Who sent the roses?”

“No idea. They’re not for me, though. No one’s ever sent me flowers, and I can’t think of anyone who would.”

“It could be M for Mom.”

“Not mine. She doesn’t even remember birthdays,” I scoffed.

“Oh. Maybe someone from your office?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied automatically, returning my attention to the cookbook when he jokingly listed every job title he could think of that began with the letter M.

Mailman, mason, miller, mall cop.

I chuckled, loving his goofy sense of humor and the wicked gleam in his eye. Magician, medical person, magistrate…

“Marlon,” he blurted.

I scowled. “Why would he send you roses? I thought you dumped him a long time ago.”

“I did, but…he can be tenacious. Then again, the message doesn’t make sense. Congratulations would be for you or Cole…or maybe Noah.”

“Must be Noah. But if it’s Marlon…I might have to kick some ass.”

“Violence is not the answer.” Holden chuckled and kissed my temple as he sat beside me. “What are you doing?”

“I, um…I’m gonna make dinner. And you’re gonna help.”

“I am?”

“Yep. Pick out a recipe while I get dressed,” I instructed, handing the binder over.

Holden spared a quizzical look and stared at my junk for a beat before averting his eyes.

“Gosh, this is wonderful. Beef Stroganoff, goulash, chicken and dumplings,” he read, pausing to study the faded family photos tucked into every other page.

I yanked a T-shirt over my head and perched next to him, scanning the notes on the sides.

Best served with a drizzle of lemon, Ryan says less carrots in the pot pie, Ezra loves this one, double the recipe.

And the goofy sayings,In this kitchen, we always lick the spoon.Or…That can’t be grilled said no dad ever.

He turned the pages, pausing to study the photos of my brothers and me and our dad, looking jolly as fuck in every damn shot. He towered above us, yet seemed more like an umbrella than a shadow. We’d thought of Dad as a safe space, a port in the storm.

We’d counted on him to know the right answer, do the right thing. Even when he’d been doing all the wrong things. We’d forgiven what we hadn’t understood and floundered in his absence. At least I had.

“See one you like?” I asked, pushing aside maudlin thoughts.