Page 45 of This is a Kissing Book

“You’re kidding.”

The only likeness between this guy and Honest Abe is the height and those refined cheekbones—they’re of the type that many would say could cut glass, but in this case, they could split wood. Whereas Lincoln was all sharp angles and prairie-worn edges, this Abraham Lincoln is handsome in a way that makes my brain forget how to form complete sentences. Full biceps that strain against the hem of his t-shirt and hands that look like they could build something or tear it apart with equal ability.

“Why would I kid about something like that?”

I bump my shoulders up and down. “Clout.”

He rolls his eyes as if he’s above that. Easy since he’s a billionaire’s son.

I tilt my head and squint.

“What’s that look for?”

“I’m trying to picture you in a stovepipe hat,”

He fights a smile around another sip of root beer. “I have a closet full.”

“Giving speeches about preserving the Union …” I gesture dramatically with my root beer. “Four score and seven years ago⁠—”

He chuckles.

Continuing with the oratory bits and pieces I remember from history class, I’m standing now, one hand pressed to my heart, the other extended like I’m addressing a crowd.

“You’re ridiculous.” He reels me back toward the couch by my wrist.

No, his touching me and setting my skin ablaze is ridiculous. Feeling flammable, I tuck myself into the corner cushion.

He sets down his root beer and leans forward. “My mother spent years researching our family history. She found documents, traced bloodlines, and was fascinated, but more than that, she was most interested in the love story.”

“Between Abraham and Mary Todd?”

“Mom said it was love at first sight. He courted her, but then something happened and they were kept apart before ultimately reuniting. During that time, my mother believed they exchanged love letters. She always wanted to find them.” His eyes crinkle with affection and warmth.

It’s a rare sight and makes me confident this man would never wear guyliner.

Like a chime indicating I got the right answer on a quiz show, I realize exactly which piece is missing from the Fairfax Collection. “And the Civil War painting?”

“I believe Echo & Answer might contain clues about Lincoln’s personal effects. Letters, documents, or something that points to the location of the lost love letters.” He runs his hand through his hair. “I know how it sounds. Crazy, right?”

“No. Maybe you want to feel connected to something that mattered to her.”

“Yeah.” He exhales through his nose.

“And why did it, aside from the obvious that it’s a piece of history?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, studying my face. “To confirm that true love exists. I know my father loved her in his way. At first, they had a good relationship. But he got swallowed up in work. They never fought or anything, but she kept a journal. It took me a long time to read it—more than the twelve years I’d had with her. But when I finally did …”

My hand drops on top of Linc’s, letting him know I see and feel his sorrow. He thought or hoped his father would be there after his Mom passed away. That he’d step up. Step in. Save her? There are all kinds of heartbreak. Linc is still part lonely puppy under all that raw, cut manliness.

“The content of her journals was mostly upbeat, tracking our day-to-day lives, noting little things as I grew up. It was really sweet.”

And tragic.

“She also commented a lot on her relationship with my father. It’s almost like, at times, he forgot about her, wrapped up in work. For instance, she kept a little tally of the number of days that passed before he’d simply ask, ‘How was your day?’”

My hand presses to my chest. “How sad.”

“She always smiled, though, and prayed for him. For us.”