Page 334 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
I press my palms against my thighs, suddenly self-conscious. This is not the first time I’ve rattled on and on about things that are only interesting to me. I bite my lip. “Sorry. That was probably more of an answer than you bargained for.”
“I love it,” Flint says warmly. “I respect your passion and dedication. And I’m all for respecting nature, living among it instead of destroying it.”
“I think you did that with your house,” I say. “It feels like it belongs here. Like it’s always been a part of the mountainside. I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
“No, it totally makes sense,” Flint says. “And I appreciate you noticing. That’s exactly what I was going for.” He holds my gaze, steady and confident, until I have to look away to catch my breath. I’m not sure my lungs can fully expand when he’s looking at me like that.
Hannah looks from Flint to me, then back to Flint again, a smile playing at her lips. “Well, I’ll be,” she says softly.
Flint’s eyes jump to his mother, then he clears his throat and stands so quickly that his chair falls over behind him. He scrambles to pick it up, nearly tripping on his own feet as he does so. Once the chair is back on all four legs, he pushes it under the table and backs away.
“I’m going to get some more potato salad. Anyone else want more potato salad? No? Okay, then.”
Hannah chuckles as he walks away. “I haven’t seen that in a while,” she says.
“What’s that?” I ask, almost afraid of her answer because I know what Iwantit to be, and it’s the most preposterous thought that haseverpopped into my head.
Don’t say it, I think to myself.Just don’t say it.
“He’s flustered,” Hannah says. She looks at me coyly. “I think you did that.”
I laugh much too loudly, even as the rebellious part of my brain rejoices that she thinks I couldevermake someone like Flint Hawthorne flustered. “Ha! No. I’m not—he wouldn’t—” I shake my head like a six-year-old trying to convince her mother she didn’t steal the last cookie. “I’m just a girl who likes nature,” I finally say.
She shrugs. “He’s just a boy who likes movies.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I lift my palms to cover them, positive that Hannah—or anyone else who spares me a glance—will see how much the implication of her statement is getting to me. “Um, do you think Flint would mind if I use the restroom?”
I need a minute.
Or an hour.
Or maybe three days.
“Of course, honey. That door will take you to the kitchen, then just follow the hall to the left, and you’ll find it.”
I nod and quickly retreat to the cool interior of Flint’s house. But good grief—if I thought this was going to help things, I was dead wrong. The outside of Flint’s house is actually pretty simple. Rock and wood and earthy muted colors. But the inside is bright and modern and beautiful. Clean lines. Huge windows. Light everywhere, even in the fading evening hours.
The living room just off the kitchen looks warm and welcoming. The furniture is leather, but it looks incredibly soft, and every chair and couch is draped with cushy blankets the same color as the walls—a pale, dusky gray-blue. I pause before crossing the kitchen and tug off my boots, not wanting to track any dirt through this incredibly perfect house.
The action only reminds me of how ridiculously I’m dressed. Not that I knew I was dressing for a family barbecue. I’m dressed forwork.I’ve never felt uncomfortable in my baggy cargo pants. They are incredibly practical. Lots of pockets for my notebook, my phone, extra memory cards for my camera, ChapStick. But my sisters have teased me enough for me to know that, especially when combined with an old baggy biology T-shirt from my undergrad days, they aren’t exactly flattering.
I do not miss the fact that I have never cared about whether my work clothes are attractive. Who would I ever be trying to impress when I spend most of my time alone in the woods?
It shouldn’t be any different now. Flint Hawthorne might as well be an oak tree, for all the likelihood there is that he would ever find me attractive. I mean,yes.He flirted when we first met. But that was probably just an actor thing. The way he is with everyone.
And okay,yes,his mother did just imply that he’s flustered, and it can only be because of me. But she’s probably just reading into things because she’s his mom, and isn’t that what moms do? Try to play matchmaker for their kids?
I leave my hiking boots next to the door and head down the hall to find the bathroom, andoh good grief,this room is just as gorgeous as the rest of the house. It has to be a guest bathroom, off the kitchen like it is, but there’s a full shower tiled in smooth river rock and stacked stone. It looks like the inside of a waterfall, and I immediately want to use it. It’s a stupidly impulsive thing to think. I’m not going to randomly take a shower in Flint’s house. There aren’t even any towels—oh.ThereAREtowels. Thick, fluffy gray ones stacked on the corner shelf. I reach out and touch one, but then quickly yank my hand away.
No, Audrey! No impulsive bathing!
I finish up in the bathroom without stripping down for an impromptu shower and head back down the hall. Based on the rest of the house, I’m itching to look around, open all the doors to see what the rest of the place looks like. It wouldn’t bequiteas bad as taking a shower, but it’s still more than I’ll let myself do. Except, just before I reach the kitchen, there’s a room with a door that’s already open.
There’s nothing wrong with peeking into a room with anopendoor, is there? I step into the room, the plush carpet sinking under my feet, and pause in the doorway. This must be Flint’s office. There’s a desk on the back wall, a dark brown leather sofa on the other, and low bookshelves, about knee-height, circling three entire walls. But it’s the wall decor that catches my attention.
I step back into the hall and peek around the corner into the kitchen to make sure I’m still alone, then tiptoe back into the room. It only takes a second to realize that the framed posters above the bookshelves are movie posters—and they are allmovies Flint has been in. They’re arranged chronologically, and I walk slowly past each one. Flint’s picture isn’t on every poster, especially not the early ones, but I make it a point to find his name listed at the bottom when he isn’t a headliner. The farther I go into his career, the more frequently I see his face front and center. Action films. Dramas. Romantic comedies. Something about time travel?
“That was a really terrible movie.”
