There were a few other pictures scattered about of the dog, the older man with various women, and one of a yacht, but no more of Christian. In all there couldn’t have been more than ten photographs, and she found that rather sad. She might have resented her grandparents, but every aspect of her childhood and teen years had been recorded for posterity. Every report card kept, every playbill from every dance recital she’d ever been in had been meticulously filed away in a scrapbook. She had been loved, and it showed in every memento and photograph that they had kept of—and for—her.
Feeling like an intruder, she backed out of the room and headed downstairs. Christian was focused on whatever he was doing in the kitchen.
“It smells divine,” she said, leaning on the butcher block in the middle
