Page 249 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
He disappears inside, the click of the front door sounding loud in the heavy silence of the falling snow.
Brody is trying for a baby.
Perry is running home because his wife is worried about him driving on the roads.
And I’m . . . standing alone on an empty porch.
Geez. Who’s the only lonely sibling now?
It’s been a decade since I was in a serious, committed relationship, and that one ended badly enough that I can still conjure up the sting of Hailey’s betrayal.
If something really is happening with Tatum, can I be different with her?
And if I can’t, is it fair for her to get caught in the crossfire?
I don’t know the answer. I only know Brody’s right. Tatumdoesfeel different. And I think that means I have to try.
Chapter Twelve
Tatum
There is SNOW fallingoutside my window.
Real, actual snow! I mean, it’s not like I’ve never seen it before. I’ve been to ski resorts. I’ve traveled to places where snow falls regularly. But I’ve never lived anywhere where it can just happen, so this feels momentous.
And alsofreezing.
The heat is turned up inside my tiny apartment, but multiple people at work yesterday said that when it snows around here, the power frequently goes out from downed trees and power lines. Brody’s wife, Kate, already assured me that they have wood-burning heat at their house, and if we lose power, she’ll send Brody to pick me and Toby up, but I’m still going to bed with extra blankets in case it goes out in the middle of the night.
Out my living room window, Stonebrook Farm looks picturesque and perfect. I pull out my phone and take a couple of photos, debating whether I want to put them up on Instagram.
My account has remained mostly dormant since I made the move across the country, which is fine with me. Most of thepeople who follow me only do so because of my connection to Dad, so it’s never really felt like my account anyway.
A handful of friends follow, but short of a few DMs and text messages sent right after I left, I haven’t really stayed in touch with anyone back in L.A. The longer I’m gone from the entire scene, the more I think there really wasn’tanypart of my life that felt like mine. Even my friendships.
I slide my phone into the back pocket of my jeans without posting anything.
My photos of Stonebrook can be just for me.
I may not be one hundred percent sold on catering, but Iamstarting to love Stonebrook. It feels right somehow, while I’m still parsing together a new life for myself, to hold it close.
I cross my tiny living room, where Toby is lounging on the sofa, and pull leftovers from last night’s dinner out of the fridge.
I finally took the plunge and ordered dinner from Lennox’s restaurant. Because I couldn’t decide between two entrees, I ordered them both which, obviously, was a brilliant decision and one I’m particularly grateful for now.
I ate most of the filet mignon last night, but I was too full to eat more than a few bites of the pork tenderloin, so that’s what I warm up now. Even ordered to go—which can be trying for some dishes—both entrees were beyond delicious. The fried green tomato appetizer I ordered was just as amazing. Bright, balanced flavors, perfect textures and consistencies, sauces that complimented and heightened the dishes without overpowering them. A good sauce can easily be used to mask all kinds of sins, but none of that is happening at Lennox’s restaurant. At least not that I’ve found so far.
Somehow, he knows how to use every ingredient to its fullest potential—something I remember noticing even back in culinary school. The way he sees food—it’s a gift I’ll never stop envying.
I move to the kitchen table and drop into a chair, then take a bite of the tenderloin. I moan as the flavors explode on my tongue. Apples, brandy, brown butter. It shouldn’t still taste this good warmed up on the second day, butman,it’s the best thing I’ve eaten in weeks.
It only tastes better when I imagine Lennox’s hands preparing it, his bright green eyes looking over my order—even if he didn’t know it was for me. Would he have done anything differently if he had known? Would he have wanted to make it extra delicious just for me?
The thought warms my cheeks, and I push it away. These are the thoughts that will drive me crazy if I let them. For all I know, Lennox would have laughed and squirted extra lemon juice all over my meal as payback.
Toby moseys over and drops his head on my thigh, his unobtrusive way of asking for a bite. I cut off a tiny piece of pork and hold it out to him.
The fact that Lennox’s food is so good when his kitchen seems to be falling apart is only further testament to how brilliant he is—or maybe just how hard he’s working. I don’t think I’ve seen him take a day off since I got here.
