Page 292 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
“Lennox, I don’t want you to do that.”
“I don’t want to either. But you have to figure out what you want, and that’s going to be easier for you without me hovering. Plus, now that I know how I feel, I don’t think my heart can take thenot knowingmuch longer.” He opens the door. “You know where to find me though, all right? I’m here. Whenever you need me. I’m here.”
He disappears out the door, his footsteps receding down the stairs as I slump to my kitchen floor.
Toby comes tomethis time, draping himself over my body like a warm blanket, his head leaning into my chest. We sit there for a long time.
Until my tears are dry.
Until my breathing has evened out.
Until logic has finally blown away my storm cloud of emotions.
When my feet are numb, my butt cold from the kitchen tile, I shift and stand up, then move to the stack of notebooks still sitting in the living room.
I give Toby a reassuring pat, then I gather up the books and head downstairs to my kitchen, stopping in the pantry long enough to grab a bottle of wine.
If I can’t think myself into an answer, I’m hoping I can cook myself into one.
Not my usual M.O. But if I’m going to make the decision I need to make, I need my mother’s strength to do it.
And maybe her recipes will help me find it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lennox
I haven’t taken asick day since opening Hawthorne.
But today, I’m almost tempted.
I’m just not in the mood. I barely slept—worry for Tatum keeping me up most of the night. That, and white-hot rage whenever I thought about her father.
But sitting around doing nothing isn’t going to help.
Plus, if I don’t show up to work, Tatum will think it’s her fault. I told her I’d keep my distance, but I can still work. I can stillsee herat work.
A sharp ache fills my chest. Iwantto see her. I want to make sure she’s okay.
I push through the back door of the restaurant, pausing when I see a group of people crowded around the entrance to Tatum’s catering kitchen, concerned expressions on their faces.
A surge of panic fills me as I hurry forward. “What happened? What’s going on?”
“We don’t actually know,” Tatum’s sous chef says. “It was like this when we got here.”
I push past them into the kitchen, willing my heart to slow as I take in the scene before me.
The kitchen is a mess—the countertops covered with what looks like every pot, pan and bowl in the entire place. There are cutting boards, knives, piles of vegetable peelings. Any chef learns how to clean as they cook, and I’ve seen how efficiently Tatum runs her kitchen, so nothing about this particular situation makes sense. On the counter beside the stove, there are seven different dishes, all perfectly prepared and plated, and an empty wine bottle resting on its side.
My eyes rove over the space one more time. Make thattwoempty wine bottles.
And that’s when it hits me.
Tatum made her mother’s recipes.
And it must have taken her all night to do it.
Zach comes up beside me and places a steadying hand on my shoulder, then he motions toward Tatum’s office.
