Page 219 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
“I could say the same about you.” I drop into my desk chair, which bumps the mouse connected to my laptop and wakes up the screen. “You getting the hang of things?” The question feels normal—neutral—and I almost wonder what’s wrong with me.
Tatum eyes me, like she doesn’t quite trust that we’re having a regular conversation either, then she shrugs. “For the most part. Moving food all over the farm is a little different, but I’m learning.” She leans against the door jamb. “Some things are the same. Like how exhausted I feel at the end of the night.”
I nod toward the cheese in her hands. “Did everyone rave about the incredible parm?”
She rolls her eyes as she moves into my office, setting the wrapped cheese on my desk. “It annoys me to admit it, butyes.Three different people mentioned how delicious it was.” She sticks her empty hands into her pockets. “I’m sorry about the mix-up. I talked to my staff and reminded them that borrowing from the Hawthorne kitchen isn’t acceptable crisis management.”
Okay, now things are feelingreallyweird. We’re having a calm, reasonable conversation. I don’t even know what to make of it. But also, I maybe, sort of, like it?
“Whoa, what’s that?” Tatum says, her eyes on my laptop. “Is that Stonebrook?”
I look at my laptop screen, open to the live feed coming from the various game cameras positioned around the farm. I don’t normally have the feed open, but Dad messaged me earlier, saying something about deer in the apple orchard visible from his back porch. He and Mom live on a secluded corner of the farm, and after his stroke a few years back, he isn’t so great at getting around. But he’s quick to reach out to one of us if he feels like something needs to be done. It’s too early for there to be fruit on the trees, but deer in the orchard means a breach in the fence, and I was hoping activity on the cameras might help me figure out where that breach might be.
Ultimately, it’ll be the farm manager’s job to fix the problem, but there’s no getting away from thefamilynature of a family-run farm. Even Brody pitches in, and he’s a chemistry teacher atSilver Creek High. His job doesn’t have anything to do with the farm, but he’s still here almost as frequently as the rest of us.
“ItisStonebrook,” I say, answering Tatum’s question. “We’ve got game cameras set up everywhere. Helps to keep an eye on the wildlife.”
She stiffens, her hands curling into fists. “Wildlife?” she says, her voice a little softer than before.
Huh. This could be fun.
“Sure. Bobcats. Bears. Wild boar. They can get pretty aggressive.”
Her eyes widen. “And they’re just . . .onthe farm? Should I not let Toby out?”
I bite my bottom lip, trying not to smile. “Probably not. It’s pretty wild out there. I heard there was a crocodile in the pond the other day.”
“A croc—wait.You’re messing with me.”
I finally grin. “Tiny bit.”
Tatum huffs. “I hate you so much right now.”
“The cameras are mostly to keep an eye on the deer,” I say. “They’ll eat whatever they can get to. It helps if we track their movements, stay ahead of them.”
She nods. “That makes sense. So all those other animals. Bears. Bobcats. Those don’t live around here?”
There’s real fear in her voice, and I suddenly feel guilty for teasing her, especially since now, I have to tell her the truth, and I don’t want to give her actual reasons to worry.
“They do,” I say carefully, “but you don’t need to worry about them. Bobcats are more scared of you than you are of them. And the bears, too. We only have black bears around here. We see them pretty frequently, but they’ll stay away if you have Toby with you.”
“But like, notnow,right?” she says. “They’re all still hibernating.”
I almost smile at the hope in her voice. “It’s pretty much spring, Tatum. It’s still cold, but nature’s waking up. It knows what’s coming.”
“Oh good. Great. Love that.”
“I promise you’ll be fine. We’ve never had a bear attack at Stonebrook.” I nod toward the parmesan sitting on the desk, sensing a change of subject might do her some good. “Did you try it?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t.”
I stand and pick up the parmesan, then carry it into my kitchen where I unwrap the cheese, grab a knife, and slice off a chunk.
Tatum follows behind and takes the cheese when I hold it out to her, her fingers brushing against mine as she does.
I watch as she lifts the cheese to her mouth, already knowing how she’s going to react. Still, I’m unprepared for the way my pulse speeds when she closes her eyes and a low moan escapes her lips. “Oh my word. That’s . . .” Her words trail off as she finishes the bite. She picks up the cheese and studies the label. “Where did you get this again?”
“I know a guy in Italy. He does small batches. Ages it twice as long as most.” Any authentic Parmigiano Reggiano is only going to be produced in one very small region in Italy, so having an Italian supplier isn’t all that surprising. But my source isn’t just any supplier. “His name is Gianni Rossi. His family has owned a farm in Emilia Romagna for centuries. He mostly sells to restaurants in Italy, but there are a few of us in other places. I’m the only one in the US.”
