Page 301 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
“Not even close, Lennox Hawthorne. Not even close.”
Epilogue
Eighteen Months Later
Lennox wakes me upwith a trail of kisses down my spine, his breath warm as it brushes against my skin.
Ninety-nine mornings out of a hundred, I’m the one who wakes up first, so this is an indulgence I’ve never experienced. But lately, it feels like I’ve been sleeping longer and harder than ever before. Not that I’m complaining.
“I approve,” I say sleepily, as I yawn and roll over. “This is a lovely way to wake up. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”
Lennox smiles down at me, the early morning sunlight filtering through the window and casting tiny triangles of light across his bare chest. “Good morning, wife.”
I grin. “Think I’ll ever get used to the sound of that?”
“I hope so.” He leans down to kiss me, but it’s much too brief for my liking, then he’s out of the bed and walking toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I whine.
“To get you coffee,” he calls from the hallway. “We’ve got places to be.”
I grab my phone from the nightstand and snuggle under the covers, feeling justified in staying in bed at least until Lennox returns with coffee.
I scroll through my notifications. My dad’s flight is on time, so that’s good. He won’t make it by the time the picnic starts, but he should be there well before it’s over.
Honestly, I’m just grateful he’s making the effort to come at all.
It took Dad a little while to come around. He didn’t come to dinner the night after I refused to sign his contract, and he spent many months pouting about hisforcedretirement. But in the end, I think evenherealizes the change was good for him. He flew out for my wedding and even gave Lennox and me a trip to France for our honeymoon.
I was able to visit with my mom’s brother and her father—my grandfather—for the first time in years and explore the country with a mind tuned to experiencing it through my mother’s eyes instead of mine.
Don’t get me wrong. Dad is still . . . well,Dad.A little pompous. A lot arrogant. But in small doses, we’re doing okay. As long as we never have to work together again, I think we’ll manage just fine.
Speaking of work.I pull up the email that just popped up, glancing quickly through the PDFs my latest client sent over. Kitchen layout, menu, and then, in the body of the email, a breakdown of staff.
I’m less than a year into this new gig of mine, so all of this still feels very new and overwhelming. But it’s also challenging in all the ways I want, tapping into my strengths and satisfying me far more than cooking ever did.
Maybe that’s something most chefs wouldn’t want to admit. But there’s something magical about finding exactly what makesme tick and embracing it. I don’t have to be what anyone else believes I should be. It only matters what I want to be.
“Your coffee, my very lazy darling,” Lennox says, holding out my mug.
I sit up and take it, wrapping my fingers around the warm ceramic. I sigh. “You’re my favorite today.”
“But not every day?”
As if on cue, Toby jumps onto the bed and flops onto my lap. I lean back onto the headboard, Toby leaning with me, and grin at my husband.
“Okay, I see how it is.” He moves into the bathroom and turns on the shower. “Come on. I need to get meat in the smoker by ten if it’s going to be ready on time.”
“It’s always about the food with you, huh?” I joke, following behind him. I take a sip of the coffee and frown. “Did you do something different to the coffee?” I ask. I take another small sip. It doesn’t tastebad,necessarily. It just tastes different.
“Made it just like normal,” Lennox calls. “Are you showering? I don’t want to be late.”
“The party doesn’t start until two,” I call, stifling another yawn.
“But the meat!” he calls back.
I smile into my coffee, sensing that Lennox’s anxiety has a lot more to do with thoseattendingthis particular party than it does his responsibility to feed everyone.
