Friends to Lovers Read Online Free PDF Page A

moment. “Floats, flowers and marching bands, right?”
    Plucking the drawstring at her waist, Daphne nodded. No matter how many years passed, this story would never be an easy one to tell. “That’s the one. My mother adored flowers, and helped decorate the floats when she was in high school. It was always a crazy week, sticking petals and seeds on for twelve hours a day or more. But she said it was a week spent in heaven, because she ate, breathed and slept flowers. So once she moved out here to go to Northwestern, she still watched the parade every year.”
    “You can take the girl out of California, but not the California out of the girl,” mused Gib. He tossed his parka onto the growing pile on the coat tree.
    “Exactly.” She smiled, remembering her mother diligently squirting lemon juice over her blond hair on May 1, no matter how cold, and sitting in the sun to “rinse out winter.” “But not everyone in the Midwest thought it was as big a deal. So to talk my dad into three hours of watching flowers roll by at five miles an hour, she always bribed him with a big brunch.”
    “With the legendary cranberry cinnamon rolls.” Gib patted his stomach and sighed. Daphne tried not to wonder if he made that same sigh when being licked like a man-sicle. “I swear, no disrespect, mate, but they’re better than the ones at Lyons.”
    Sam feinted a right hook. “I’d punch you in the arm for that insult, if it wasn’t so true. Ben, I know you’ve got a dedicated sweet tooth. These cinnamon rolls will make your eyes roll back in your head.”
    “It grew into a big family tradition. All four of my brothers would sit, trying to pretend they weren’t spellbound, as long as they could shovel more rolls in their mouths. And when she died—” Her voice caught, just for a second. Years had passed, but the pain somehow could still spike as fresh as the day it happened.
    Ivy put an arm around her waist, then leaned her head over to rest on Daphne’s. “Do you need a tissue?”
    “Tissues only treat the symptom. A shot of vodka, now that would cure the problem,” Ben suggested with a nod of sage wisdom.
    Daphne sniffed. No crying allowed. This was supposed to be a happy morning. Bad enough she’d moistened her pillow over Gib already today. “It wasn’t my idea, that first year. Dad disappeared into the kitchen on New Year’s Eve. After about an hour he came out and begged me to help. Tears in his eyes, covered in flour from head to toe. He’d wanted to surprise all of us with the rolls, as a way to keep the memory of Mom with us. Cooking wasn’t really his strong suit, though. We’d been living on takeout and spaghetti in the four months since she’d died.”
    She and her brothers had ranged in age from twelve to eighteen. None of them had believed they’d miss having Mom insist on a salad with their meat loaf, or get tired of eating burgers and fries. But even teenagers had limits. The older boys started eating at their girlfriends’ houses most nights, and the family van slowly grew a carpet of wrappers and unused ketchup packets.
    “Dad remembered that I’d always helped Mom roll them out the night before, and hoped I could figure out where he’d gone wrong. I’ve made them every year since. And it did help. We cried a bit that first year—all of us—but as the years went by, even after my brothers went off to college, they made sure to be home to watch the parade. It’s harder now that they have families. Dad started spending New Year’s in Minneapolis with Nick and his first set of grandbabies. So I keep the tradition going, with my extended family—all of you.”
    Dampness sparkled in Mira’s eyes. “Well, that’s a thoroughly beautiful story. I think I’m too choked up to be able to swallow.”
    “Then you’re missing out. Dry up the waterworks by the time the parade starts, or I’m eating your share,” Gib threatened.
    His lighthearted tone erased Daphne’s own melancholy.