Page 121 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
It’s natural for me to be concerned about what she thinks and how she feels. That makes me good at my job.
That’s all this is.
I’m her boss. She’s my assistant.
End of discussion.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice laughs.That’s all this is. . .for now.
Chapter Seven
Perry
I run my fingersthrough my hair a few times and roll my shoulders. This shouldn’t be that difficult. It’s just a picture. I just need to take it, post it, and be done.
I hold up my phone, force out a breath, and take the picture.
Annnnd I look like an ax murderer. Why are my eyebrows furrowed? And why do I look so angry?
“So I need to smile,” I say out loud.
I pose again, this time smiling in a way that makes me look like I’m smelling bad cheese.
I drop my phone onto my desk with a sigh and press my face into my hands. No smiling. I just have to make a serious look work. That can be attractive too, right? Broodiness? Not that I necessarily want to look attractive. This is for work. It’s better that I look professional. Not smiling should be just fine.
I open up the camera app on my phone and flip it around to face me. Maybe with one hand on my beard, if I turn sideways and look back . . .
“What on earth are you doing?”
I jump when my brother’s voice sounds from my office door, and my phone goes flying, clattering to the wood floor beside my desk.
Lennox reaches it before I do and wastes no time pulling up my photo gallery. “Oh, man,” he says with a chuckle. “These are so good.”
“Shut up.”
“Why do you look like you’re smelling something?”
“Maybe I was. You were on your way here.”
Lennox drops onto the chair opposite my desk. He’s wearing casual clothes—jeans and a Red Renegade band T-shirt—and I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen him in anything but his chef’s coat.
“You aren’t working today?”
He shakes his head, but his eyes don’t lift from my phone. “Gave the staff the day off. They’ve been working hard. They deserve a break.”
“Have you hired everyone you need?” The restaurant opening has been delayed twice now—mostly because Lennox is such a perfectionist—but the plan now is to be ready for a soft opening the weekend before the harvest festival.
“I’m interviewing pastry chefs tomorrow,” he says with an ease I’ve always envied. Lennoxisa perfectionist, but he isn’t astressedperfectionist. He’s very good at rolling with hiccups and setbacks, adjusting his schedule accordingly. Though I’m sure it helps that he’s got Stonebrook’s working capital backing his efforts, so his open deadline isn’t exactly do or die. I’ve told him if he doesn’t open by Christmas, he has to work the first three months for free to help offset the cost of paying his ever-growing staff when the restaurant has yet to generate any income.
“Relax. The restaurant will open by festival time,” he says, as if sensing the thoughts running through my brain. “It’s going to be fine.”
I lean into my chair. It will be fine. Olivia and Lennox have worked hard on the restaurant opening, and I trust them. They’re good at this. They’ve thought of everything. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a near-constant doomsday narrative humming at the back of my brain. If there is any possible way to fail, my brain will think it up.
As long as I don’t think myself into panic attacks, it’s actually a pretty useful skill.
You need someone to preemptively troubleshoot your idea? Tell you all the ways it might possibly fail? I’m your guy. It’s why my consulting firm did so well, back before Jocelyn cleaned me out, and I came back home to run the farm. I don’t have problems shooting holes in things, though Olivia insists I could at least do it with a little more optimism and a little less glee. Pointing out someone’s weaknesses is one thing. Projecting their imminent failure is another thing altogether.
“What about you? Is everything with the festival okay?”
