Page 115 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
I won’t argue with her, because Marley is paying me a compliment, and my grandmamma taught me it’s tacky to toss a compliment back in someone’s face. Still, Marley has only seen me on video calls from the waist up. She’s never encountered my generous hips in person, and let me tell you, they are a force. Even before Jack, I’ve never been one of those willowy, wispy people with long, lean limbs. I’m more draft horse than racehorse, and I always have been. Farm stock. Built to last.
Not that I mind. I’m happy in my own skin. (Another gift my grandmamma gave me with the positive affirmations she made me repeat every night before bed.) I recognize the strength and function of my body and do my best (most of the time) to remember its purpose is far greater than justlooking hot.
But I’m also a realist. Experience has taught me exactly what kind of man will pick a racehorse over a draft horse. When a man looks like Perry Hawthorne, there’s no question. He will pick a racehorse every time simply because he can. I’ve got nothing to worry about when it comes to that man. Not a single, solitary thing.
“Thank you,” I say to Marley. “And thanks for talking me through it.”
“Anytime. Trust your gut, Lila. You’ve got good instincts.”
I end the call and climb into the car with Jack. “Is your seatbelt buckled?”
“Yep!” he says, his feet swinging.
Despite his turtle-slow pace getting ready in the morning, he’s a pretty easy kid, something I’m grateful for every single day.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror as I face forward and slide my sunglasses over my face. I can’t shake the feeling that something big is about to happen.
But that’s stupid. This will probably be nothing. A benign encounter in which I hand my boss a jack and then go on my merry way. Even if he is divorced. And single. And gorgeous.
“And completely out of your league, Lila,” I say out loud. “Get a hold of yourself, woman.”
“Who’s out of your league?” Jack asks from the back seat. “What’s a league?”
“Don’t worry about it, baby. I’m just talking to myself.”
With a deep breath, I shift the car into reverse and back out of the garage.
Ready or not, here I come.
Chapter Six
Perry
It’s been twenty minutessince I hung up the phone with Lila, and I’m still doubting the wisdom of calling her. Lila sounded distracted when we spoke. Like there was a lot going on in the background, and she couldn’t fully focus on what I was asking of her.
I reallydidn’twant to impose. And I don’t want to ruin the dynamic of the professional relationship we’ve built. But desperate times, and all that.
When a blue SUV pulls up behind me and a woman climbs out, I start doubting for an entirely different reason.
If that’s Lila, she is . . .notold.
She’s also beautiful. Dark hair piled on top of her head. Freckled skin. Curves for days.
Something deep in my gut ignites, and I run a hand through my hair. I’ve dated since my divorce. Mostly to appease my siblings who, at this point, probably think I’m broken beyond repair. But this feeling—a sharp, visceral attraction—is new.
But right behind the attraction is a sense of frustration. It doesn’treallymatter that Lila doesn’t look like her avatar. ButI’ve had this picture of her in my head, this idea of exactly who is on the opposite side of my messages. I was comfortable with my imagined version of Lila. But that version just got turned on its head.
If the woman is even Lila. Could she be a daughter, maybe? A neighbor? A friend?
I watch through the rearview mirror as the woman moves to her trunk, likely to pull out the jack she drove out here to give me. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. This interaction would be so much easier if the avatar-version of Lila had shown up.
This version of her? Or whoever this woman is? I’m not prepared to talk to a woman who is both young and hot. If the past is any indication, odds are pretty good I’m going to say something ridiculous or embarrassing.
My brothers are good at this sort of thing. At small talk with beautiful women. And if I have Lennox or Brody as a wingman, ready to fill in the awkward silences and expand on my monosyllabic answers, I can usually get by. But on my own? I’m too stiff. Too formal. Too direct.
The problem is, I’m alsoveryself-aware, so the entire time I’m trying to converse naturally, I fully sense how poorly I’m doing, which puts me in a bad mood. So then I’m not just awkward, I’m also grouchy.
It’s honestly a wonder I ever managed to get together with Jocelyn. I think the only thing that saved me was the fact that we knew each other in high school.
