Page 218 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
It’s not the first time I’ve noticed the way Tatum interacts with her staff. They all love her—reallylove her—and it’s easy to see why. She’s firm but fair, and she talks to them like they’re real people with real lives outside of work. I’ve been around the catering kitchen enough to know how stressful it can be to manage so many people’s individual needs, from food allergies to finicky couples with weird tastes. But Tatum makes it look easy. I respect that about her.
“Hey Elliott, can I get a minute before you leave?” I ask, proud of myself for sounding so normal. Yesterday, Olivia caught us bickering over a bushel box of celery hearts and scolded me until I promised I would try harder to communicate with Tatum like a professional and not a caged animal.
I couldn’t quite explain to my sister that even though Tatum and I might sound like we’re arguing, our interactions don’t have the same edge that they did in culinary school. I can’t speak for Tatum, but it almost seems like we enjoy them. At the very least, we’re both energized by them.
Tatum glances at me, eyebrow raised, then turns back to Jessie. “Take this out to the van, and I’ll be right behind you.”
Jessie hurries out of the kitchen, but Tatum moves at a slower pace, sauntering toward me like she’s got all the time in the world. “What can I do for you?” she asks when she finally reaches me.
“Where’s my parmesan?”
“You’re holding up Aunt Edna’s plate to ask me about cheese?”
“I’m sure Aunt Edna will be fine for two more minutes. My parm is missing, and you or your staff are the only ones who could have taken it.”
Tatum starts toward the walk-in. “I know which side of the fridge is mine, Lennox. I didn’t take your cheese.”
“Somebody did,” I say, following after her.
“Has Penelope visited lately?” Tatum says, her eyes flashing with laughter. “Maybe she ate it.”
“All twenty pounds of it?”
“Two weeks ago, she waswandering through your kitchen like she owned the place. You can’t tell me it isn’t possible.” She opens the heavy door of the walk-in, and I follow her inside.
“Possible, maybe. But not probable. The cheese was here this morning.”
Tatum frowns as she makes a slow circle, her eyes quickly scanning the shelves.
“This is where my parmesanwas,” I say, pointing to the empty spot on the shelf.
“Ah,” Tatum says. “I see what happened.” She steps forward and hefts a quarter-wheel of parmesan out from behind a giant block of cheddar. “Here.”
I glance at the label. “This isn’t mine.”
She sighs. “I know. It’s mine, and apparently, my staff couldn’t find it and accidentally grabbed yours instead. It was an honest mistake, and I’m sorry it happened.”
I’m already shaking my head. “I can’t use this. The parm I use is aged over a hundred months. This won’t have the same bite.”
“You’re right. But what can I do about it now? Call back every plate from the wedding reception so I can scrape off your fancy cheese and replace it with something else?”
She presses the cheese wheel against my chest, which is no easy feat. The thing has to weigh at least twenty pounds. “Do youhave plates waiting?” she asks, pushing the parm back into my chest. “Just use this. It’s better than nothing.”
I don’t like that she’s right, but sheisright. I do have plates waiting, and slightly less bitey parmesan is better than no parmesan at all.Barelybetter, but still better.
“Fine,” I concede. “But we aren’t done talking about this.”
She presses a hand to her chest with mock enthusiasm. “I am giddy with excitement at the thought,” she deadpans.
As I turn back to my kitchen, the snarky sarcasm in her tone stays with me, except this time, it feels more challenging than annoying. And I’ve always been a man who loves a challenge.
No one complains about the subpar parmesan, and I make it through the rest of the night without any major mishaps, though my staff seems more tired and disgruntled than normal. I need to figure out why, but it can wait until tomorrow when I’m not bone-deep exhausted and my brain doesn’t feel like whipped meringue.
I turn off the lights in the main kitchen and head to my office where I shed my chef’s coat, dropping it into the laundry bin that will get picked up in the morning. The t-shirt I’m wearing underneath is damp with sweat, and I pull it away from my skin. I need a shower. And about twenty hours of sleep. Which is impossible, seeing as how I have to be back at the restaurant in less than twelve.
“You’re still here,” Tatum says from behind me.
I turn to see her standing in my office doorway, clutching what looks like the rest of my parmesan in her hands. She looks as exhausted as I feel.
