Page 315 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
He lifts a hand and rubs it across his jaw, then props both hands on his hips. The motion stretches his T-shirt across his sternum and pectoralis muscles, which—yes,I notice. Unfortunately, his face is not the only part of him that’s perfect, and while I am undoubtedly a scientist with very specific opinions, I’m also a woman.I’d have to be dead not to notice.
“You really don’t have any idea who I am?” he asks.
By itself, the question might sound arrogant. But there’s a hope in this man’s voice that negates his presumption. It’s almost as though he doesn’t want me to know who he is.
I wrack my brain, trying to think of somewhere I might have met him. Or seenhim, since, going by the enormous house and the security guard, this guy is probably someone famous. A singer? An actor, maybe? Either way, I’m out of luck. I haven’t listened to anything but classical music in years, and I haven’t watched a movie since before my PhD program.
According to my sisters,not liking moviesis one of the things that contributes to my hopeless misanthropy and should not be admitted out loud in any social situation. It’s number threeon the list, actually, right under my dissertation for my PhD program and the number of small rodent skeletons I have stored in my attic.
(FOR SCIENCE. I promise I don’t hang out with them or anything.)
My obvious social ineptitude aside (it’s shameful how much I actually need my sisters’ help), I’m positive I have no idea who this man is.
“I really don’t,” I finally say.
He nods and looks toward the cops standing on either side of me. “You can let her go. This was obviously a misunderstanding.”
Relief surges through my chest, and I take a deep breath, maybe the first one I’ve taken since this whole shenanigan began. As soon as my hands are free, I step forward to get my camera from the hood of the sheriff’s car.
The man clearly in charge of this situation, the one with the impressive pectoralis muscles and the bright blue eyes, beats me to it. He picks it up and scrolls through several photos. “You were photographing squirrels, you say?”
I nod, resisting the urge to yank the camera from his hands. “White ones. Or,onewhite one. Though I’m hopeful there are more.”
He stops on what must be the last photo I took before my…abduction? This is not the right word, I know. But my brain is full of norepinephrine from all the stress, and I’m not thinking clearly enough to land on the correct one.
“Huh. Look at that,” he says. “I’ve never seen a white squirrel before.”
I smile wide, elation filling my chest.
I got it.I got the picture. It would have been better had I been able to track the squirrel for a while, figure out where he’s nesting, but a photograph is a good start.
The man looks up and startles the slightest bit, his eyes dropping to my smile, which I quickly shift into something less enthusiastic. I might as well wear a T-shirt that says,Please ignore me. I’m too weird for regular human interaction.
He’s still looking at me, though.Staringat me, even. My system must still be dealing with some sort of adrenaline flood because it almost feels like there’s a weird kind of energy sparking between us.
I brush the impression aside—I am stronger than the chemicals inside my brain—and clear my throat. “White squirrels don’t typically live around here,” I say, sounding more professorial than I would like, but it’s my default mode, and in the present circumstance, it’s all I’m capable of. “That’s why I was tracking him. I did my PhD research on the migratory patterns of—” My sisters’ threats echo in my brain, and my words trail off. What do they always say I should do? Dumb things down for regular people? “What I mean is, white squirrels aren’t typically native to Polk County. The fact that they’re here is new. And a big deal.”
He lifts an eyebrow like I’ve said something to amuse him. “Is it?” he says through an easy grin.
I shrug. “A big deal to me.”
He hands me the camera, our hands brushing in a way that makes my skin tingle. I rub at the back of my hand like I can wipe away the sensation, and the man eyes me curiously before taking a giant step back and pushing his own hands into his pockets.
He looks at his security guard, a question in his eyes. It’s clear they’re having some kind of wordless conversation, because eventually, the security guard shakes his head, and the other man nods, his expression resigned.
“Just the same, this isprivate property,” he says. “I can’t have you wandering around my woods.” He looks to the sheriff’sdeputies. “Could you give her a ride back to…wherever she came from?”
The younger deputy nods. “Absolutely, Flint. Consider it done.”
The deputy sounds like an overeager puppy, hoping to please, corroborating my belief that this man is someone famous. Also, his name isFlint.If that doesn’t sound like the name of a star in one of my sister Lucy’s romantic comedies, I don’t know what does.
“Wait,” I say, stepping forward. I reach for Flint’s arm, which immediately has the security guy stepping toward us like he’s prepared to toss me over his shoulder like a ragdoll if that’s what it takes to protect his boss. Not thatFlintlooks like he needs protecting, based on his own obvious (and very impressive) upper body strength.
I hold both my hands up, taking a step away. “Sorry. I just—if I’m only looking for squirrels,” I say. “Taking pictures ofonlysquirrels. Can I come back? I swear, I won’t take pictures of anything else. And I’ll stay in the woods, far away from the house.”
Flint studies me, his arms folded over his chest. He takes a step forward, his eyes trained on me, and suddenly it feels like we’re the only two people on the planet. His security guard is hovering beside us, but he is nothing but a blurry blob in the background of whatever this moment is. “What’s your name?” Flint says softly.
I swallow and clear my throat. “Audrey,” I croak out.
