Page 116 of This is a Kissing Book

“When was the last time you were home?”

“Christmas, but my mom and Brad the Dad’s anniversary is next month. They really want me to come.”

“Your boss will make sure you have the time off.”

I chuckle because this has become our joke. “I appreciate that⁠—”

Linc yanks his gaze toward me and then back at the road. “You were about to say but …”

I bunch up my lips. He’s not wrong.

“I know money is tight after everything that just happened, so if that’s the issue …”

I cannot keep accepting his generosity. I’ve paid my own way so far and I don’t want to become indebted to Linc, too.

Turning up the dial on the radio, I say, “This is a road trip. Let’s talk about road trip things.”

“Is that a category of conversation?”

“Of course.”

“Elaborate.”

We talk about traveling, which segues into some funny stories, mostly from him, and then I ask the big, important road trip convo questions like celebrity crush, favorite song, and best movie of all time. You know, the highly controversial things. The things that two people who started out despising each other would fundamentally disagree on.

Time flies by and when we finally pull up a winding driveway shaded by bushy oak and maple trees, the so-called cabin on Fox Lake isn’t what any normal resident of planet earth would designate as a cabin. I was expecting a log exterior or, at the very least, some gaps in the timbers, a roof in need of repair, and a single room—I figured we’d navigate sleeping arrangements later.

This is what a realtor would refer to as a lakefront estate. It’s three stories of rustic elegance, with a wraparound porch and windows that reflect the water like mirrors.

“This was your mother’s favorite place?” I ask as Linc carries our bags up the front steps.

“She and I would stay here all of August when I was younger. Dad would visit on weekends.” His eyes flicker like the turning of a scrapbook full of memories. “She loved the quiet.”

Inside, everything is warm wood and soft fabrics, but it’s the family photos scattered throughout that catch my attention. Especially one on the mantle—a woman with Linc’s eyes and gentle smile, held in a ceramic frame decorated with little acorn embellishments.

“She was beautiful,” I say softly.

“Yeah. She was.” Linc picks up the frame, studying it for a long moment. “I try to remember her this way. She was very sick when she passed away. Dad was away on business in Hong Kong.”

“Were you with her?”

He nods. “She was in hospice care and one day she asked for this photo.” His voice catches slightly. “I think she was waiting for him to come home.”

The pain in his voice makes my chest ache.

“I had one of dad’s drivers bring me all the way here to get it. She held it to her chest as she took her last breath.” Linc clears his throat and says, “You can take any of the guest rooms and I insist you make yourself at home.”

I squeeze his arm, wanting him to feel like he can talk more about his mom if he wants. “Give me a tour first?”

He shows me his mother’s desk by the window overlooking the lake, where she’d write letters and read. The dock through the big windows where she’d swim and paint watercolors of the sunset. The kitchen where she’d bake every weekend. I admire her piano—not at all dusty, which suggests Linc called ahead to have the house readied.

We wander upstairs and I count four guest bedrooms. I take one with a lake view and a balcony. After freshening up from the drive, I go back downstairs.

Linc suggests we go to the local market to get some groceries. I’m about to tease him because I figured he’d have them delivered or already have the pantry stocked, but I have second thoughts.

For one, he drove us here in a slick European sports car, but still. In Chicago, he usually has a driver, food delivery, and everything else seems to appear with a snap of his fingers.

But maybe being up here at the “cabin” gave him and his mom a chance to be “normal,” to have a break from the trappings of their wealth and do everyday things like grocery shop.