Page 279 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
He immediately stops and spins around. “Wait, no, Tatum, you should totally go to bed. I get like this sometimes, but . . . you don’t have to wait up with me.” He steps closer, slipping his arms around my waist as I lift my hands to his shoulders.
I smile and shake my head. “I want to wait. I really am hungry. And I’m pretty sure this dish is going to be amazing. Cook. We’ll eat.ThenI’ll go to bed.” This is my new normal. Pushing aside sleep, chores, anything deemed nonessential to be with Lennox as frequently as possible.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to my lips. “You’re good to me.”
I catch him before he can retreat, pulling him back for a longer, more intentional kiss. I run my hands down his shoulders and over the curve of his biceps as I arch toward him. He lets out a low moan and deepens the kiss. “Maybe I don’t need to cook tonight,” he says against my lips.
I nudge him away. “Yes, you do. You know you want to. Also, I really am hungry.”
He smirks. “I’m hungry, too.”
I laugh as I push him away. “You’re shameless. Now, go. Feed me.”
He steps away, his grin wide as he heads toward the fridge. “Feed me?” he says over his shoulder. “And you’re callingmeshameless?”
A bonus to all of the obvious benefits of spending so much time with Lennox: I’m also learning a lot about myself. Observing his process, hearing him deconstruct a dish, talking about what flavors are working and what flavors aren’t—I’m recognizing that his brain works in magical and amazing ways that I cannot, in any respect, fully comprehend. It feels a little like watching one of those videos where an artist paints an entire canvas upside down and it looks like a lumpy potato until they flip it over, and suddenly you’re looking at a sketch of Harry Styles, a knowing grin on his face.
The point is, Lennox’s genius in the kitchen is unparalleled. Maybe it’s because I’m finally growing into myself, owning what makes me talented in my own right. Maybe it’s because hiskisses make everything easier. But the jealousy I used to feel back in culinary school is completely gone.
Now, I just admire him. Respect him. And possibly feel . . .morethan that. Though I’m not sure I’m ready to admit as much out loud.
“Hey, random question,” I ask as he heads back into the kitchen, salmon in hand.
“Shoot,” he says.
“What made you want to run your own restaurant?”
His eyebrows go up. “Like, just generally?”
I nod.
He sets the fish on the counter and pulls out his knife, slicing it into two generous portions. “I mean, practically speaking, cooking is what I’m good at, so it makes sense.”
“That’s it?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything else. “It’s all very practical and reasonable?”
He turns around and wipes his hands on his apron before folding his arms. “You’ll laugh at me.”
“I absolutely will not.”
He hooks a hand around the back of his neck like he’s nervous, which is, not going to lie, absolutely endearing and adorable. “Okay, I guess I just feel this sense of responsibility. Food has always meant a lot to my family because it’s the source of our livelihood. The bounty of the earth has givenusbounty. So cooking feels like a way for me to fuel us and feed us and give us the energy to give back to the earth. It’s a relationship—which is why I try to use every part of an ingredient, wasting as little as possible.” He drops his hand and turns back to his fish. “That probably sounds really weird.”
Oh my word.This man has no idea how sexy he is when he talks about cooking. “I don’t think it sounds weird at all,” I say, my voice soft. “I think it sounds brilliant.”
He walks over to the stove and pours some oil into a pan. “What about you? What made you want to cook?”
“My father,” I answer without hesitation. “But not for the reasons you think.”
A lightness fills my chest as I realize I’m going to tell Lennox the truth. Unfiltered. Uninfluenced by what Christopher Elliott or anyone else actually thinks.
“So . . . not because you were inspired by his very impressive career?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Then why?”
I shrug. “It was the only option. The only topic of conversation. The only dream I was ever allowed to have.”
He lifts the pan, swirling around the oil so it fully coats the bottom. “But was it ever actuallyyourdream?”
