Page 205 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
3. How to Kiss Your Enemy
Chapter One
Lennox
TatumfreakingElliott. Thousands of chefs in America, and my sister hiresher.
I’d like to think I’ve grown up over the years—that since I graduated from culinary school, I’ve left behind petty rivalries and schoolyard competitions.
But as I watch a black SUV slowly meander down the main drive of Stonebrook Farm, nerves swirling in my gut, I’m beginning to wonder.
I’ve prepared myself for this moment. I’ve talked it through with my brothers. I’ve insisted to my sister, over and over, that, despite my initial freakout when she hiredTHETatum Elliott to be the new catering chef at the commercial farm and event center my family owns, I would be fine.
Finewith a capital F. Because I’m totally chill. A fully grown adult who is perfectly capable of leaving my history with Tatum in the past so we can get along like mature, civilized adults.
I reach up and run a hand across my beard, then stick a finger under the neck of my chef’s coat, pulling the fabric away from my skin. Has it always felt so tight? So stiff? I might as wellbe wearing the too-small snowsuit my grandmother gave me for Christmas the year I turned seven. I had nightmares about that thing suffocating me for weeks.
Outside, the black Mercedes S-Class SUV rolls to a stop. It figures she’s still driving a Mercedes. She had one back in school, too.
With the winter sun shining down on the windshield, the glare keeps me from actuallyseeingwhoever is driving the car, but it has to be Tatum. The U-Haul trailer hitched to the back of her SUV and the California license plate affixed to her front bumper are evidence enough.
I can’t believe she’s really here.
Not that I have any room to argue. Olivia gave me the chance to sit in on the interviews and offer opinions about who I thought would best fit the Stonebrook Farm culture.
I’m the idiot who was too caught up in my own stuff to bother. But how was I supposed to know the chef who, nine years ago, snarkily signed my graduation card “so happy to never see you again” would apply for a jobhere, of all places?
Whatever her reasons for taking a job far below her pedigree, the farm needs a catering chef, and Tatum is whom my sister hired. Olivia and my oldest brother Perry run Stonebrook together, and they do a good job of it, so I have no choice but to get on board and keep my petty complaints to myself.
“What’s cooking, Chef?” Zach, my sous chef, appears beside me, his gaze following mine to the SUV outside. “Who’s that?”
I run a hand across my jaw and give my shoulders a roll, a lame attempt to release the tension building there. “The new catering chef,” I finally say. “She’s moving in today.”
Adding an apartment above the catering kitchen was a strategic decision my parents made twenty years ago, hoping the free housing would lure quality chefs out to Silver Creek.
Bet they never guessed they’d get someone as famous as Tatum Elliott. Or, sort of famous, anyway. I can’t imagine what she’s going to think of the place after the lifestyle she grew up with.
When I first moved home, the apartment was vacant, so I crashed there for a few months. It isn’t a bad place to live by any stretch. It’s small, but it’s clean and recently updated. I would have happily stayed longer had it not beenonthe family farm. Living at work when work is a family-run business? Let’s just say that was a lot oftogetherness.
Another minute goes by without Tatum getting out of her car, and I half-wonder if I should go out and greet her, but I quickly dismiss the thought. This is Olivia’s deal, not mine.
I promised my sister I wouldn’t get in the way of Tatum doing her job, but that doesn’t mean I have to go out and give her some grand welcome. That would require me to pretend like I’m happy she’s here.
My watch vibrates with a text, and I glance down to read it.
Olivia:Tatum has arrived! On my way to meet her now. Can you make sure her kitchen is ready?
I ignore the request, only because this is Olivia being Olivia, worrying like only she can. Tatum’s kitchen is fine. Cleaned yesterday after the sous chef and the rest of the catering staff prepared a farewell breakfast for a group of Asheville yoga instructors who booked the farm for a three-day retreat. There aren’t any events today, so Tatum will find her kitchen empty and exactly like her staff left it.
That’s one point I can be happy about. Tatum and I won’t be sharing a kitchen, even if we are working in the same building.The only overlap between Stonebrook’s catering kitchen and my farm-to-table full-service restaurant is an enormous walk-in refrigerator, a little bit of shared pantry space, the loading dock and dumpsters out back, and a staff locker room.
Outside, Tatum finally climbs out of her car. She’s wearing street clothes—jeans and a light blue sweater—which immediately strikes me as odd. In my memories, she’s always wearing chef’s whites. Her hair is down, dark curls wild and cascading over her shoulders, another contrast to the way I remember her. In school, she always had her hair slicked back in a tight, no-nonsense bun.
Zach whistles beside me. “The new catering chef is a smoke show.”
I scoff at his reaction, but he’s not wrong. She’s still the same Tatum, but she looks different somehow. More mature. Morebeautiful.A pulse of attraction flares in my gut, catching me by surprise. If this wasn’t Tatum Elliott, and I didn’t know better, I’d already be thinking of ways to ask the woman out.
Fortunately, I do know better.
