Page 269 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
Her hand moves into my hair, her fingers pressing into my scalp, and this time, I’m the one that lets out a groan. But I can’t do this.
She’s too asleep for me to know ifsheknows what she’s doing, and I know better than to push when I’m not sure this is actually what she wants.
It takes all of my willpower, but I pull back, grasping her hand with mine and easing it away. “Easy there, tiger,” I say. “How about you just get some sleep for now?”
She doesn’t answer, which only makes me feel better about my decision to back away. I tuck her hand under the blanket and pull it up to her chin, then move to the other end of the couch and tuck it under her feet.
There’s nothing else I can do to make her feel comfortable, and it feels weird to just stand here and stare at her, so I grab a pillow from the pile Brody and Kate left earlier and stretch out on the floor next to Toby. He scoots closer, lifting his head and dropping it on my stomach.
I don’t know how to make sense of what just happened.
I kissed Tatum.
Tatum.
Or, Tatum kissed ME.
Sort of kissed me?
Is a sleep kiss the same thing as a drunk kiss? Can I even trust it as something that Tatum wanted, at least subconsciously, or is this more of an impulse thing that, had she been remotely cognizant, Tatum would have overridden and tossed out as a horrible idea? Will she remember and think it was a dream? Or worse—a nightmare?
Tatum shifts the slightest bit. “Lennox?” she says softly.
I push up on my elbows. “Hmm?”
She says my name one more time, exceptnotlike a question. “Lennox.”
I smile as I settle back on the floor. So maybenota nightmare.
If she’s dreaming, I’m glad it’s about me. Because whether she remembers it or not, my first kiss with Tatum Elliott is something I’m never going to forget.
Ourfirstkiss. But I’m determined it won’t be our last.
And next time, I’ll make sure it’s oneshe’llremember.
Chapter Seventeen
Tatum
The power is backon when I wake up. The lamp in the corner of the living room bathes the room in soft light, and I can hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
Lennox is stretched out on the floor beside the couch sound asleep. He’s on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow and the other draped over Toby, who is snuggled in beside him. The sight of my dog nestled against a sleeping Lennox Hawthorne does serious things to my heart. I thought it was bad yesterday when Lennox talked to Toby in a silly voice, but this is ten times worse. If yesterday was a gentle nudge to my feelings, this is a seismic shift. Toby has been the sole occupant of my heart for some time now, but apparently, the rebellious organ is more than happy to grow an extra chamber for Lennox.
And that scares me more than I can say.
Toby’s head pops up, like he somehow sensed that I’m awake, and when he moves, Lennox moves. I hold my breath, not wanting to intentionally disturb him. It’s barely light outside. It can’t be much past six a.m., and we were up late. Just becauseI’m an incurable morning person doesn’t mean everyone else has to be too.
Toby settles back down, and I feel around on the couch, knowing my phone is around here somewhere. I find it tucked under my pillow, still connected to the portable power block Brody gave me yesterday. I unplug it and set the charger aside, then snuggle a little deeper into my blankets. Without really thinking about what I’m doing, I pull up Instagram and find Lennox’s profile. He doesn’t post much—I discovered that when I saw the Stonebrook job posting, impulsively applied, then cyber-stalked his entire family until I got the job. But the Stonebrook Farm Instagram account is full of gorgeous pictures of the farm, including several from the restaurant opening that feature Lennox in all his gorgeous glory.
In my favorite photo, he’s standing in his restaurant kitchen, a pan of vibrantly colored vegetables sautéing on the stove in front of him. I can’t tell what he’s making, but that doesn’t matter. The picture isn’t about the food. It’s about Lennox and the light in his eyes—the sheer joy on his face.
My heart squeezes for the millionth time in the past twenty-four hours.
Lennox loves what he does.
I love that he loves what he does.
But the contrast to how I feel about my work is too blatant to ignore.
