Page 222 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
He quirks an eyebrow. “Room temperature works if it’s seventy-two degrees. But what if it’s seventy-three?”
His eyes spark with humor, and I press my lips together as I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. It might actually be a little warmer than seventy-three degrees, which is unusual considering I’m the only person here. The only thing we served today was breakfast for a family reunion up at the farmhouse.
We have a wedding tomorrow night, but all the prep work is done, so I’m here alone, finishing up a small batch of gluten-free pastries for the bride’s gluten-intolerant siblings. My pastry chef worked late last night finishing up the regular pastries, so I told her I would handle these.
With no ovens on, no cooking happening anywhere in the vicinity—it shouldn’t be so warm in here.
I take a step closer, my arms folded across my chest. I’m only inches from Lennox now, who is mirroring my stance. If I weren’t so much shorter than he is, our arms might be touching. Instead, his arms are more in line with my collar bone. “You seem awfully concerned about the temperature, Lennox. Makes me wonder if someone turned up the heat on purpose.”
“Are you accusing me of sabotage?”
I’m suddenly aware of his delicious body heat, of the smell of his clean chef’s coat mingled with something woodsy and uniquely Lennox. It’s completely disconcerting. I didn’t come to Stonebrook with any thoughts or hopes about a relationship with Lennox Hawthorne. Did I hope we’d be able to co-exist peacefully as co-workers? Sure. Does that mean I want to flirt—argue?—my way into something more? Absolutely not.
Which makes this interaction feel a little like smelling an apple pie in the oven when you’re allergic to apples. It might smelldelicious, but if you actually eat it, you’re going to break out in hives.
I’m notpositiveLennox will give me hives. But I just made a drastic life change. Changed jobs. Moved across the country. Logically, this should not be something I’m ready for.
Still, the way he smells—it’s all I can do not to breathe in enormous lungfuls of Lennox-scented air whenever he’s close by.
“You brought up sabotage first,” I say, my voice alarmingly breathy.
Whyam I breathy?
If Bree were here, and I told her I wasn’t flirting, she would laugh right in my not-flirting face.
“I didn’t sabotage anything,” Lennox says, his voice low. “But I did see one of your chefs messing with the thermostat yesterday. You might want to check on that.”
I prop my hands on my hips. “Oh. Well thanks, then. I’ll do that.”
Lennox reaches forward and tugs on a curl that’s come loose, stretching it down before it springs back into place. “If I were you, I wouldn’t make your pastry until you do,” he says. “Because that butter is too soft.”
“You’re too soft,” I grumble, smacking him in the stomach and leaving a trail of almond flour on his chef’s coat.
Except . . .oh. Oh my.His stomach isnot soft.
It takes exactly three seconds for me to realize my hand isstillon his abdomen. Sliding down the ridges of muscle like they’re there for my amusement.
“Find something you like?” Lennox says with a smirk, and I pull my hand back like I’ve touched a flame.
“Ha!” I say, a little too quickly. “You wish.” I clear my throat, resisting the urge to lift my hands to my fiery cheeks. It wouldprobably only draw more attention to them. “I was . . . only trying to dust off the flour,” I say.
The laughter in his eyes says he senses the lie in my words as well as I do, but I’m not about to back down. He raises an eyebrow. “That’s all, huh?”
Fine. Yes. Call me a liar. It’s better than admitting I was just feeling up Lennox’s abs.
When his expression doesn’t shift, his grin cocky and sure, I use both hands to playfully shove him away. “Uggh. Just go. Take your muscles and let me get back to work.”
He chuckles lightly as he saunters off, stopping in the doorway long enough to say, “I’m going to remember this, Elliott.”
I wait until he’s well and truly gone to pick up my butter, testing its softness with the pad of my thumb. I swear under my breath, hating that he’s right. Butter that’s too soft makes flat, gummy pastry that isn’t light and flaky at all. I reallycan’tmake pastry with this.
I carry the butter back to the fridge, stopping on my way to check on the thermostat. It’s set to seventy-six, which is entirely too warm. I make a mental note to talk to my staff about it, then abandon the pastry and head upstairs to take Toby for a walk. I’ll come back later when the kitchen—and the butter—are both a little cooler.
Before I make it more than a few feet, shouting from Lennox’s kitchen draws me in the opposite direction. I tiptoe down the hallway and peek around the corner to see two of his cooks locked in some heated exchange, a giant bin of sliced onions on the counter between them. Lennox is standing off to the side, his forehead pressed into the heel of his hand.
“I hear what you’re saying,” Lennox says, dropping his hand. His tone is measured, like he’s fighting to maintain control. “We can talk about it. But right now is not the time to hash out—”
I duck back into the hallway, feeling suddenly guilty for eavesdropping and not wanting Lennox to see me.
