Page 220 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
“How did you even find him?” Tatum asks. “For real. That’s the best parm I’ve ever had. I’m suddenly so sorry to have wasted it on a bunch of thankless wedding guests.”
“Dumb luck, mostly. I was vacationing in Italy, and I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “Right place, right time? There’s got to be more to the story than that.”
I carve off another few slivers of cheese, taking one for myself and offering the other to Tatum. Her fingers brush against mine, slower this time, almost like she’s lingering on purpose.
It takes me a minute to respond because then she’s lifting the cheese to her mouth and I’m watching as her tongue darts out to catch a crumb that’s stuck to her bottom lip.
Focus, Lennox. FOCUS.
“I, uh . . .” I clear my throat. “What can I say? I was in this tiny Italian bistro, Gianni stopped by, and we struck up a conversation—”
“He just randomly started a conversation with you? Then discovered you were a chef and offered to fly his artisanal, small-batch, world-class parmesan halfway across the world because he liked your smile?”
I grimace and run a hand through my hair. She isn’t going to let me off the hook, and Ireallywish she would. “It’s possible I was dating his daughter at the time.” I breathe out a sigh, slowly lifting my eyes to meet hers. For reasons I cannot define, I don’t want to talk about my dating history with Tatum.
“Ahh, there’s the catch,” she says. “I knew there had to be one. And knowing what I know of your dating history, this totally tracks.”
The comment about my dating history cuts, but I ignore the sting as I slice off another piece of cheese for Tatum. I can’t argue about the impression she has of my dating history because it’s the right one. I dateda lotin the four years I attended culinary school, never settling down with any one woman. At least not after my first year when Hailey Stanton carved my heart out of my chest and ran it through a meat grinder.
Gruesome imagery, I know. But in this instance, it totally fits. And I’m still not over it. Whenever I think about getting seriouswith someone, my body breaks out in a cold sweat, a visceral reaction I never see coming and can’t prevent.
I don’twantto be a player. And in the sense that most people mean the term, I’m not. I might go on a lot of dates, but I never lead women on. But defending my reputation would mean talking about why I keep everything so casual in the first place, and that’s not a conversation I want to have. At the end of the day, it’s easier to take the label and let people think what they want to think.
“Must be nice walking around the world so handsome and charming, people just waiting to lavish you with shiny, fancy things,” Tatum says.
I push the negative thoughts away and focus on Tatum. “Are you telling me you think I’m handsome?”
She reaches for the cheese and I pull it back right before she can grab it. She frowns and tries again, this time wrapping her fingers around my wrist and sending a burst of sensation up my arm. She holds my hand steady as she takes the parmesan out of my fingers. “I’m telling you I think you’re ridiculous,” she says. “The cheese is delicious. Butyouare ridiculous.”
“Better watch it, Tatum. If you’re nice to me, I could probably hook you up with your own artisanal parmesan.” I reallycould.It wouldn’t be hard to order enough from Gianni to cover the catering kitchen’s needs as well as Hawthorne’s.
“I don’t need your handouts to be fabulous, Lennox,” Tatum says saucily.
The air around us shifts just slightly, and I hold her gaze for a long moment. She reallyisfabulous.
The thought feels foreign in my brain, especially when I slide it in next to all thehatingwe did to each other back in school, even next to the bickering we’ve been doing since she arrived at Stonebrook.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” I ask on impulse.
She must sense I’m being serious for once because her playful expression fades. “Sure.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I know everyone here is happy to have you. But why did you take this job?”
The light in her eyes fades the slightest bit, but then she shrugs dismissively, like the question is no big deal. “Why not?”
I narrow my eyes. “Tatum. Come on. Your father is—”
“Not in charge of my career,” she says, cutting me off. “I needed a job. This seemed like a good one. I don’t ever want to be a chef who thinksanyjob is beneath me. Catering is a new challenge that I was excited to try. It really isn’t more complicated than that.”
Pretty sure it’sa lotmore complicated than that, but I’m not about to push Tatum for an explanation she isn’t ready to give.
“Fair enough,” I say, and her shoulders relax the slightest bit.
She might not have answered my question directly, but she told me plenty anyway. I’ve met her father, after all. It isn’t hard to guess what the gaps in her story might look like.
Tatum says goodnight and heads toward the back door while I wrap up the last of the cheese and return it to the fridge, then grab my keys and lock up my office.
