Page 268 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
The fire crackles in the hearth as Kate and Brody make their way upstairs. They take the lantern with them, and the candles have burned themselves out, so we’re left with nothing but the fire to see by.
My hand is still wrapped around Tatum’s ankle, and I tug it toward me, using both hands to press my thumbs into the ball of her foot.
She moans softly and closes her eyes. “Oh man. That feels . . .” Her words trail off and she lets out a little whimper as I move up and down the arch of her foot.
“It’s almost like you work on your feet all day,” I say.
She chuckles. “Right?” After a beat of silence, she says, “Sometimes, I don’t know why I do it.”
My hands still. “What, cook?”
She gives the tiniest nod. Her eyes are cast in shadow, and I can’t see her expression, so I just wait, my fingers working on her foot, and hope she’ll add something to clarify.
“I used to love cooking,” she says, her voice soft. “When I was really little. But then when Dad got the cooking show, and everything changed so fast . . .” She shifts, and I give her foot a squeeze before letting it go and reaching for the other one. “I don’t know,” she continues. “I could be remembering things wrong. But it just feels like once Dad was working with the network, he no longer talked to me aboutfood.He only talked to me about my career. And those aren’t the same things, are they?”
“No, they definitely aren’t,” I say softly. “I get what you’re saying.”
“Lennox, I don’t think I ever figured out how to cook just for the sheer joy of it.” Her voice sounds farther away, and I think she might be falling asleep. “That’s terrible, right? I should love what I do. What if I never love what I do?”
At this point, I’m not even sure she’s talking to me. It feels more like I happened to overhear a question she’s asking herself.
When her breathing evens out and deepens, I’m even more sure.
I keep my hands cupped around her foot and lean my head back, shifting so I’m more fully reclined on the couch. I can’t sleep like this long term, and Tatum won’t sleep comfortably with my big body taking up most of the couch, but hopefully, she’ll be okay for a few minutes more.
I don’t know what to make of Tatum’s words.
She doesn’t love to cook?
I always imagined growing up with Christopher Elliott had to be such an incredible privilege, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve had a lot of conversations with Flint about what fame can do, about how hard he has to work to keep himself grounded, to refuse all the fawning and free stuff and catering to his every whim.
But cooking isn’t really about fame. For me, it’s about love, as cheesy as that sounds. About serving and caring for the people around me and making people happy with something I create. And of course, it’s about the food. About recognizing bounty and magnifying it in ways that honor the earth and the many things it gives us. Money, attention, praise in travel magazines or from food critics, those things are like icing. They can help, of course. Make it possible to keep doing what I love doing. But it’s never beenwhyI do what I do.
My eyes close, and I feel myself drifting off, but my left leg is fully asleep with the way Tatum is leaning against it, which can’t be any more comfortable for her than it is for me. My ankles arebony, and it feels like my left one is currently digging into her ribs.
I shift and pull my legs back, slowly inching away from Tatum without waking her up. It takes some effort, but eventually, I’m on my feet.
Toby lifts his head and looks at me, but he flops back onto the floor with a snuffly breath.
Tatum is curled into a ball at the end of the couch, her head tilted at an awkward angle that she’ll regret in the morning.
I move toward her and slip one hand under her back and the other around her shoulders to try and shift her down a little. I lift gently, and suddenly Tatum is moving, her arms lifting and wrapping around my neck. I pause, hovering over her, unsure what to do.
“Where are we going? Are you taking me somewhere?” she asks sleepily.
“Just moving you a little so you can be more comfortable.” I shift her down until her head is resting more fully on a pillow. “How’s that?” I ask.
“Mmm, that’s better,” she says.
I have my doubts as to whether Tatum is awake enough that she’ll remember this conversation in the morning, and I have half a mind to ask her something ridiculous just to see what she’ll say. Flint used to talk in his sleep all the time, and Brody and I would take turns trying to coax him into saying stupid stuff. We still have an audio recording of him confessing his love to one of Mom’s milk goats—with her silky brown fur and soulful eyes.
I don’t want to manipulate Tatum, but I also don’t want to let her go, which is good because her arms are still wrapped around my neck. I can’t stand like this forever though—my quads are already burning from my half-crouched, half-standing position.
I shift one hand out from under her and slide it up her arm. “Hey, are you going to let me go?” I whisper.
She lets out a tiny moan that ignites a pulse of fire deep in my gut. “Mmm, nope,” she says a little too sleepily for me to trust her. “You should stay here. You should—”
Before I can fully process what’s happening, Tatum slides her hand from behind my neck, tracing my collarbone until her fingers hook over my shirt. She tugs me closer, even as her hand slides up to my cheek, one thumb grazing across my bottom lip. She tilts her head up the tiniest bit, and then her lips are on mine, fire-warm and feather-soft.
