Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Quick aside. In every sport I’d played, a pregame hush would settle over me even though adrenaline was coursing through my veins. In lacrosse, it was the moment I walked on the field and took my position. It was like everything in me was honed and prepared for action. I felt that way now as I picked up the binder by the corner edges and gingerly set it on my desk.
The faded plastic cover was dotted with faint splotches from ancient cooking experiments. The fingerprint-smudged index card labeled The Greatest Dad Cookbook Ever had slipped sideways in the laminate sheath. My grade school cursive was wobbly as hell. I could almost picture my six-year-old self giving it my best effort with my face three inches from the card and my tongue hanging out.
I turned the laminated pages, skimming Dad’s shaky handwriting—which, honestly, wasn’t much better than mine.
Ez says this is a good one. Substitute veggie broth for water.
Two pages later, under chicken pot pie: I’m not sure about the mashed potato topping but the boys say it’s the bomb. That’s good, I think.
On and on it went. Simple recipes for everyday dishes like casseroles, pastas, and soups were followed by desserts. Cookies, cakes, brownies. Every page represented a memory. The chocolate Texas sheet cake Dad made for my tenth birthday, the chicken noodle soup he made when one of us was sick.
Each entry came with notes, and occasionally a photo clung to the plastic cover. Most of the pics were of the dish itself, but a few were of Dad at the stove or one of his helpers. Usually, me. I zipped through the peoply pics as I searched for the spaghetti recipe. I thought he’d alphabetized it, but—
“Knock, knock.”
My heart leaped out of my chest. “Jesus. What’s with sneaking around?”
“I didn’t sneak,” Holden said, his feathered cap slipping from his head as he struck a nervous pose in my doorway. “I called your name and tapped on the door, but you were a million miles away. What’s that?”
I closed the book and draped my forearm over it. “Nothing. What’s up?”
He bit his lip and squinted. “Well, I wanted to inquire as to your availability tomorrow at ten o’clock for the HRS meeting. If you’re able to attend, I—”
“I told you I’d do it.”
“Oh, okay. Terrific.”
I pushed the cookbook away and crossed my arms. “Holden, stop being weird.”
“Weird? How am I being weird?”
“When I got home, you weren’t wearing that hat, which means you specifically went to your room to get it just to talk to me. That, my friend, is the definition of weird. Or maybe it’s cool,” I conceded. “What do I know?”
“Nothing,” he snapped. “I’m not nervous. I’m slightly flustered. There’s a difference.”
“Gotcha. But there’s no reason. We said we’re cool and we’re cool. I mean…I’m cool, are you?”
“Cool as a cucumber.” His enthusiastic nod knocked his hat off his head.
I bent to pick up his hat and returned it with a lopsided grin. I wasn’t sure what it was about Holden, but he had a way of accidentally brightening dark corners.
“Good. As for the geek meeting…text me the address and tell me where to meet you.”
“First, thank you, kind sir. And second, I propose that we drive together so that you’ll know where to go for future reference.”
“First, don’t call me kind sir. And second, okay,” I deadpanned, not pointing out that I’d know where to go if he just gave me the address.
Holden’s lips twitched with humor. “Can you be ready at nine thirty tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You’re not going to argue, complain that’s too early, or that you’ve changed your mind?”
“No. I’ll be ready.” I pushed away from my desk and set the binder facedown on my dresser at the opposite end of the room.
“Thank you. I—oh, you dropped something.” Holden bent to pick up a photo that had fallen from the book, then straightened slowly and smiled. “Is this you?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Aw, you were so little and skinny and…no tattoos. Is this your father?”
I plucked it from his fingers and studied the photo of Dad and me for a beat. Dad in an apron with his arm around me, smiling big for the camera. He’d been a big man—tall, heavyset with brown hair, brown eyes. And I’d been a scrawny-assed eight or nine-year-old. Damn, that photo was easily twenty years old.
“Yeah,” I repeated, stuffing the photo into the book.
“I see the resemblance. You were cute.”
“Cute? I was fucking adorable,” I snorted, joining him at the door. “Anything else I can help you with, Shakespeare?”
“Uh…no. I’ll leave you to your evening.” He set his hand on the doorknob. “By the way, I sent you another link about Henry the Eighth. If you have a moment, it might be helpful to brush up on your history.”