Page 80 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
But I’m beginning to wonder if the price of that hope is just too high.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kate
It’s rainy in London,and even though it’s July, I wish I’d grabbed Brody’s hoodie when I left the hotel this morning. Yes, Brody’s hoodie. The one he loaned me a couple of days ago on our way home from Robbinsville. Yes, I still have it, and yes, I brought it with me to London, and no, I will not be judged for that fact, thank you very much.
Of courseI brought his hoodie with me. The thing smells amazing. Trouble is, now everything else in my suitcase smells amazing too. Honestly, if I could figure out how to bottleessence of Brody,I could make millions. I can already picture the advertisements. Half-naked kayakers, rippling muscles, raging whitewater in the background.
Forget journalism. I should go into marketing. Women of the world wouldn’t know what hit them.
That’s how I’m feeling walking around London enveloped in Brody’s scent. No matter where I am or what I’m wearing, I’m thinking of him, which is the exact opposite of what I wanted this trip to be about. I wanted to clear my head; instead, I can’t get him out of it.
It doesn’t help that every free moment I’ve had, I’ve been working on my article about Brody’s whitewater kayaking program. So I’m not just smelling him all the time, I’m also thinking about how amazing he is. Writing about his altruistic heart. The way he cares about each of his students. His dedication to their growth even while making their safety his top priority. Add in the pictures Griffin sent me of Brody kayaking the narrows in last year’s Green Race?Notthinking about Brody is about as likely as saying no to a drink of water in the middle of the Sahara.
The article is finished now, which is a feat considering how much time I’ve spent atExpedition’soffices. But I had to write fast. If this thing is going to matter, it has to be published sooner than later. It sped things along that there is so much scholarly research on experiential education, particularly regarding outdoor experiences and the positive impact these kinds of activities have on student performance.
And Griffin was an absolute lifesaver. With his help, I was able to network with several of Brody’s former students, all of whom were happy to share their thoughts about Brody specifically and his program generally. Even the guy I called at two in the morning, not realizing he’s stationed at Ramstein Air Force base and is on Central European Time instead of Eastern Time, had positive things to say.
I sent the finished article to James Wylie, an editor withBeyond, a national publication based in the US, early this morning. He’s published my stuff before, and James has told me more than once he’ll always be happy to read anything I send his way.
I’m done for the day atExpedition,but I still have two hours to kill before meeting my dad for dinner, and that’s long enough for a nap snuggled up in Brody’s hoodie.
I know.I know.I’m a top-tier hot mess.
I’m also pretty sure I’m in love with him. Sucks for me because loving him and being right for him are not the same thing.
As soon as I knew I’d be in London, I called Dad to see if he could fly over from Paris to meet me. It’s been a while since we’ve had the chance to catch up, and with all the turmoil of the last month or two, I could use his steadying influence.
I cross the street and head toward my hotel, stopping at the corner when my phone rings. My breath catches when I see who’s calling. Maybe I’ve managed to get one thing right, at least.
“Hi, James.”
“You’ve saved me, Kate Fletcher.”
I grin. The editor atBeyondhas never been a guy for small talk. “Saved you?”
“I love the piece you sent over. It’s different than what you usually send us, but I like your angle. The way you discuss the concerned parents in a way that makes themnotseem like idiots even though it’s obvious to anyone with a brain that they are, in fact, idiots. Very nuanced.”
“Thanks? I think?”
“Did you send this anywhere else?” he asks.
My heart rate ticks up the tiniest bit. “Not yet. I wanted you to see it first.”
“Excellent. I want it. We just had to pull our feature—what was that?” he says to someone in the background. “Absolutely no exceptions. There is no criminal charge that we would be okay with. No. As long as there is an active investigation, we aren’t publishing anything about his brewery. End of story.” His voice comes back on the line. “The nerve of these people,” he says, then he sighs. “Where were we?”
“You were telling me you had to pull your feature story? James, what does that mean for me?”
“It means I get to be the hero because you’ve given me a story to replace the one that just got axed, and you go to press in ten days for our August edition.”
I onlyjustkeep myself from squealing right there in the middle of Gracechurch Street. I had hoped to get something in print by early fall, but even that was going to be a stretch. August is perfect.
“Where are you right now?” James asks. “This is obviously going to get rushed through. Can you email me a list of your sources? And whomever we need to contact about printing these photos. They look professional.”
“I’m in London, but I’ll be stateside by tomorrow night. And I can send all of that to you right now.” Assuming Griffin knows who took the Green Race photos. Or at least knows someone else who knows.
“Rightnow,right now,” James says. “In the next five minutes, if you can swing it. Can you vouch for all your personal sources?”
