Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I push my own longing aside. This moment belongs to her. I take the Post-it note and draw a steadying breath so I can give this moment the weight it deserves.
Then I read out loud the message left in curvy handwriting.
Dear Mabel,
I always said you came from a long line of women who follow their hearts. I thought you would enjoy knowing more about one of them. These letters are for you, just like this firehouse is for you. You’ll know what to do with them. Oh, but be a dear and remember my number one rule: letters are like cookies—don’t eat them all at once!
Love,
Your biggest fan
Mabel stands with her hand over her mouth, tears streaking down her pretty face. She rolls her lips together as if sealing in all her emotions. I know that holding-back feeling too well.
I step closer and swipe a finger across her cheek, wiping away one of her tears. “Mabel, your grandmother orchestrated this entire thing. The firehouse, the letters, the timing…This is incredible. Way more than a ten out of ten.”
She smiles through her tears. “It’s a hundred.”
She sinks to the floor, the weight of the discovery seeming to hit her all at once. I kneel next to her, unsure what to do. I just kissed her senseless, offered her my leg to ride, and then we found a treasure.
Where’s the guidebook for what to do next?
Out of the blue, Mabel throws her arms around me, holding me tight. I didn’t expect that, or her next words: “Do you want to read one with me?”
Whatever jealousy nipped at me before vanishes. Because suddenly, I want that more than just about anything.
19
FOUND RECIPE
MABEL
I’m really not a crier. Scratch that. I try not to be a public crier. But in the last few weeks, I’ve rained down tears in front of Jonas the snowboarder-slash-banker and now my sexy hockey-playing business partner, whose leg I also just humped.
No wonder my mother is always trying to give me life advice.
Clearly, I need it.
I can hear her stern, commanding tone: Don’t cry at work because people see it as a sign of weakness.
Oops.
I take five, head to the restroom, clean up my face, and wash my hands. I don’t want to touch the letters with paint-streaked fingers.
Once I’m done, I take some calming breaths, will my heart to stop racing, then attempt not to run back into the bakery. It’s not every day you stumble across a stash of decades-old letters.
Even though I want to gobble them up, I also know how to follow orders. Grandma’s rules to slow down exist for a reason. When I was seven, I once ate a dozen or so cookies at her house, and I had the worst stomachache. Then, of course, there’s what happened to the llamas who got into the sugar cookies.
Best not to rush headfirst into anything. And besides, this gift of letters from the past—I haven’t even begun reading but I already know I won’t want it to end. If I savor each one, I can enjoy them more.
When I return to the bakery area, I sit cross-legged on the floor with the stack of letters and do what I should—I take my time. I pick up the stack. I flip through it. I imagine what this stack of letters and cards might become if I follow a recipe.
Because that’s really what this is. It’s my grandmother’s recipe for…something. I don’t know what, I don’t know how, but it’s clear she had a plan.
I doubt Corbin was in her plan though. How could she have known he’d be my business partner? But somehow, it feels right having him here for whatever comes next.
Because he just made you come.
I silence that very naughty voice in my head. I mean, sure, the man has a way with his thigh. But he also has a steady presence and an air of patience as he joins me on the cool, concrete floor, stretching his legs out in front of him. Maybe she knew somehow that I’d need that.
As I undo the satiny lilac ribbon, I focus on opening the stack carefully, on figuring out what ingredients Grandma left me in this surprise recipe, on taking time to consider each one.
“I have no idea if these are her letters or someone else’s,” I say, feeling like I’m opening the door to an escape room, unsure of what the puzzle is, but eager to solve it.
“Did she ever mention anything about letters? From a friend? A lover? A relative?”
I shake my head as I fiddle with the corner of the first sheet of paper. “No. She sent me postcards. I sent some back to her. It was our thing.”
“Maybe this is your thing now,” he offers.
“Or our thing,” I suggest. I don’t want to be a greedy little pig. The letters might have been saved for me, but he discovered them. Only, I don’t want to imply I think we are a thing, so I backpedal. “Our thing at Afternoon Delight.”