She scowls. “Ew. That’s—” She shakes her head, closes her eyes, and blows out a breath. “You know what? I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer, pervert.”
I shrug. “Listen, I don’t believe in yucking anyone’s yum, but that would be?—”
“Gross.”
I snort. I love riling her up. “Plenty of women our age would kill for a shot with Daddy War.”
Seriously, the man is a Bolts legend. Not only was he the best captain the team’s ever had, he’s got his wife’s name and their wedding date inked onto his hand. I’ve heard rumors he has ink in honor of her elsewhere too, but I would never tease Josie about that. Besides, I’m sure it’s just urban legend. Who in god’s name would tattoo their damn balls?
Josie pushes the album back into her bag and stands. “You know what? You don’t deserve my help.”
I lurch from my chair and clutch her arm before she can leave. “No, I’m sorry. You know I have diarrhea of the mouth. I can’t help it. It’s a disease.”
With a roll of her eyes, she plops back down. “If you weren’t so pretty, I’d ditch you.”
I bat my lashes. “So my boobs and pretty eyes make me good eye candy? Is that why you put up with me?”
She barks out a laugh. “Something like that.” Setting the now open album on my desk between us, she points to the first picture. “This is my parents’ wedding album, creeper.”
As I take in the image, my heart lifts. “Aw, they look so young.” I spin the album and study the picture of Ava in a white winter jacket in front of city hall. Daddy War is in a simple black suit. The sleeves of his Oxford are rolled, exposing his tatted arms as he cups her face and kisses her in front of a burgundy Rolls-Royce SUV with a license plate that reads Mrs. War.
I snort. “Fancy.”
Josie smiles softly at the picture, eyes glassy, and brushes her fingers against the page. “That was the day we became a family,” she says, voice filled with emotion.
I have to look away from her. I love her story. The miracle of how her parents chose her. But sometimes it’s hard to think about. Because no one in my life has ever chosen me.
With a forced smile, I lift my chin. I don’t need anyone to choose me. I’m choosing myself. “So why are we taking a trip down memory lane?”
Sniffing, she turns the page. “Because of this.” She taps a piece of paper that’s been glued into the album. It’s yellowed a little with age and is crinkled like it was balled up at some point but then smoothed back out.
“The Good Wife’s Guide,” I read aloud. I skim the article quickly, noting the illustration of a woman wearing a dress and apron, circa 1955, according to the date at the top. She’s holding a plate of pancakes and wearing a blinding smile.
The “guide” makes me twitch. It’s absurd. “Prepare yourself. Take fifteen minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives.”
My eyes practically bulge out of my head.
“Put a ribbon in your hair.”
Josie’s lips are twitching.
“Wait.” I stab the page with one finger. “Why is your mother’s signature at the bottom of this?”
Ava Warren. The words almost bleed into the page, the strokes wild.
Josie giggles. “I have no fucking clue, and honestly, I almost don’t want to know—” She shakes her head. “Listen, things were volatile between the two of them back then. They did a good job of hiding it from us, but we all knew how much my mom couldn’t stand my dad.”
“But she’s so kind.” I shake my head and flip through more pictures.
There are years of memories documented here. It’s clear in every image that Tyler Warren has always been head over heels in love with his wife.
I glance back up at my friend. “What does this have to do with my column?”
She bites her lip, her eyes flashing with excitement. “I was waiting for you to ask. I think you should write an article like this—about dating.”
“I do write about dating.” Confusion washes over me. I love Josie, but I don’t have time for riddles or brainstorming ideas that already aren’t working.
“No, you write about sex. You don’t date.”
