Page 98 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
2. How to Kiss Your Grumpy Boss
Chapter One
Perry
I don’t have alot of experience sweet talking pigs.
Which is unfortunate, because I’m face-to-face with a three-hundred-pound behemoth armed with nothing but my charm, a bag of apples, and opposable thumbs.
Trouble is, I’ve never been very charming, and this pig might actually be smarter than I am. It’s the only way to explain how she got out of her fully secure enclosure where there is no sign of escape. If she left through the gate, she closed it on her way out. And shedoesn’thave opposable thumbs.
Pig, one. Perry, zero.
“It’s just you and me, Buttercup,” I say, rolling an apple toward her snout. She looks up, one ear twitching. The look in her eye says I’m not nearly as interesting as the cabbage she’s eating out of my brother’s garden. “Come on. Apples are better than cabbage. Any fool knows that.”
She snuffles and finally shifts toward the apple, and I wince at the snap and crackle of the crushed leaves and broken stems she’s leaving in her wake.
It’s a good thing Lennox is out of town. Though truthfully, I’d endure his scolding if it meant having his help. Or anyone’s help. For being a commercial farm and event center, my family’s business enterprise, Stonebrook Farm, is unusually quiet. Well, this half of Stonebrook is quiet. There’s a wedding reception just getting started over in the pavilion. All the more reason for me to corral Buttercup before she makes a break for it.
Forget Lennox’s cabbages. A pig crashing a wedding reception will do permanent damage to our five-star Google review reputation.
Buttercup inches toward me, and I roll her another apple. I know from experience she’ll bolt if I get too close. I also know she’ll never wander back to her pen on her own, which means, at some point, the slip lead in my hand needs to make it around her neck. “I’m feeling pretty hungry, Buttercup.” I crouch low and inch forward. “You know what sounds good right now? Bacon. Fresh, crispy, melt-in-your-mouth bacon.”
My sister, Olivia, would be horrified if she could hear me right now. Buttercup isherpig, adopted a few months ago from a family who thought they were purchasing a miniature pig but got the exact opposite. When Buttercup outgrew their backyard, they reached out to see if we had a place for her on the farm. I wanted to say no, but Olivia’s the softer side of our two-person executive team. We run the family business together. There’s a lot of crossover, but generally, I handle the numbers. She handles the people. And the pigs, apparently. She immediately caved, promising the kids they could come and visit Buttercup whenever they wanted.
Which is part of the problem. Buttercup loves people. She hates that she lives outside like a normal farm animal with only the other pigs and—horror of all horrors—the chickens for company. She’d much rather chill on the back porch like she’s the family pet.
Unless I’m on the porch.
She dislikes me just as much as I dislike her.
The fact that I keep threatening to turn her into pork chops might have something to do with it.
If Olivia were here, she’d call Buttercup’s name, snap her fingers, and the stupid pig would probably trot right toward her with a smile on her face, carefully tiptoeing over the cabbages as she goes.
Unfortunately for me, my sister has a week-old newborn. I’m not mean enough to expect her to come corral a pignow.
I’d call someone else, but thereisno one else.
Lennox is out of town.
My parents are at some school awards thing with Brody, my second younger brother, where he’s being honored as teacher of the year at the high school where he teaches.
Our farm manager, Kelly, is on her honeymoon.
The farm hands are enjoying a rare night off.
I’m the only one standing between three-hundred pounds of portentous pork and a four-tiered wedding cake.
I take another step. “But you don’t want to be bacon, do you, Buttercup? You’re a good girl.”
A chorus of laughter and applause drifts across the evening air, and my eyes dart toward the sound. I can’t see the pavilion from here. The way the farm is nestled into the rolling hills at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains, you generally can’t see more than a few hundred yards before a rising hillside or a stretch of forest obscures your view. But it isn’t that far. If I cut through the pasture where Mom grazes her goats, I could be there in a matter of minutes.
So could Buttercup.
Another cheer sounds, this one louder than the first, and Buttercup’s ears perk up.
“Don’t even think about it,” I say, inching closer. “There’s nothing for you over there. You know all about the little piggy that went to market, right? I’m just saying. He wasn’t there to do the shopping.”
