Page 216 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
A pang of sadness flits across my chest, squeezing my heart. I wasn’t close to my mom. She moved to Europe when I was twelve, right after she and Dad split, and I only saw her once a year after that, even less once I graduated from high school and started college. When she died last year—breast cancer, aggressive and resistant to treatment—I think that distance made my mourning more complicated. Because mingled in with my sadness was a deep sense of regret.
“What kinds of things?” I ask.
Bree shrugs. “Um, kitchen-y things, I think. A rolling pin, a corkscrew, a whole bunch of other utensil-looking things I can’t name. Oh, and there’s a set of wooden spoons that are gorgeous. I don’t remember what else. Some cookbooks, maybe? Anyway, I was thinking you might want them.”
“Oh. Um, yeah, I guess. Sure. But only if you or Daniel don’t.”
Bree scoffs. “You know how I am in the kitchen. And I already checked with Daniel, and he agrees with me. You’re the one who loves cooking like Mom did. I think she would want this stuff to go to you.”
“Not Dad?” I ask, which earns a derisive laugh from Bree.
“Definitely not Dad.” She’s quiet for a beat before she says, “I’m sorry you didn’t get to know her better, Tatum. And that she didn’t get to know you.”
I shrug. “Yeah. Me too.”
“You’re a lot like her, you know?”
“Am I?”
“Definitely. You have her spunk. Also her boobs, which I’m still in favor of you using to impress one particularly irritating chef.” She grins saucily into the phone, and I roll my eyes.
“Oh my gosh. How old are you, Bree?”
“Seventeen for the rest of my life.” She tosses her hands over her head. “It’s the only way to be.”
“I really have to go now.”
“K. Don’t forget to breathe. You’re going to be great. And text me your address so I can send you this box!”
I end the call and breathe out a long slow breath, trusting that at least this advice from Bree is worth taking.
I smooth my hands down the front of my chef’s coat and move toward the door. As I round the corner into the narrow hallway, I stop, startled, because Lennox is standing directly in front of me, his arms folded while he leans against the wall, a devilish smile on his face.
My hand flies to my chest. “Gah. You scared me.”
“Sorry. I heard you were on the phone. Didn’t want to interrupt.”
I freeze. Heheardthat I was on the phone? As in, he heard the general noise of muffled, unintelligible voices? Or heheardheard me on the phone? I can only hope it’s the former.
“Oh,” I say as casually as I can. “That’s, um, thanks for that. I was just talking to my sister.”
“Ah.”
Ah?What does that even mean?Ah, I already know this because I heard you talking?Orah, that’s nice. Thanks for letting me know?I wish I knew this man well enough to be able to interpret his noises.
We stand there, locked in some kind of staring contest until he finally lifts an eyebrow. The air crackles between us, so similar to all those times we faced off in SCI’s student kitchen. Only, there’s something new here—a sexy undercurrent of tension that I don’t remember feeling then. I suddenly wonder if it was there all along, and I was just too inexperienced to recognize it for what it was.
“Can I go into the pantry now?” Lennox finally asks.
I shift to the side, too distracted by the possibility of him having heard my conversation to protest. He lightly touches my elbow when he passes by, then looks down at me with a familiarsmirk. “Hey, Tatum? If you get thirsty later, I’m going to be working pretty late. You know how it is.Poundingthat bread dough.”
Ohhhh, I hate my sister so much.
Lennox disappears into the pantry while I close my eyes, one hand pressed to my forehead.
Because it’s definitely going to help if I just stand here stupidly, not moving, not saying anything, not—.
“Tatum. There you are,” Olivia says. She pulls her fiery red hair over her shoulder. “Hey, whoa. You okay?”
