Chapter Twelve Summer #2
“You’re really clinging to that pizza,” he says as we drive through town. He’s not going a single mile over the speed limit, and I wonder if that’s because of Noah getting onto him about his speeding, or if he’s actually heeding my father’s warning.
“What kind is it?”
“Pesto chicken with balsamic glaze.”
My stomach rumbles loudly. Ezra doesn’t miss it.
“Hungry?”
“Yeah. And their pesto chicken happens to be my favorite pizza ever. I missed it in Chicago.”
“Not a fan of deep dish?”
“Blech. Not even a little. Give me a good sourdough any day of the week.”
“Agreed.” He flicks his eyes down to the pizza, then up to me. “You want some?”
His words are so casual that they take me off guard. There’s no way I heard him right. There’s no way he wants to share his pizza with me.
“What?”
He chuckles lightly, like he knows I’m stumbling over his words. “I have no business eating a whole pie by myself. We could split it.”
It’s a bad idea. I know it is. But I am hungry.
We didn’t get a lot of downtime tonight with our bingo night, so I haven’t eaten since lunch.
A pizza sounds a lot better than going back to an empty house and warming up the leftover chicken and broccoli pasta I made for my dad and me last night.
Plus, he does need help with those kitchen plans.
Whatever he has going on isn’t going to work.
It’s better to fix that now than try to change it later.
But I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t. I . . .
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Wouldn’t have invited you if you were. Besides, I could use your help with the kitchen plans. The contractors want me to review them by Friday so we can finalize everything and get started next week.”
Well, when he puts it that way . . . “Yeah, sure.”
“Don’t sound so excited.” He flips his turn signal on and drives in the opposite direction from my father’s house. “Are you still thinking about opening your own restaurant?”
His words surprise me. He remembers me saying that?
“Uh, I guess I always am. Why?”
“I don’t know. Just curious. I could look out for some places for you, if you want.”
It’s actually . . . nice of him.
And confusing. I swear, he’s giving me whiplash. He was a jerk before, but now he’s offering me pizza and helping find a space for a restaurant? I don’t understand him.
“I’m not really looking.”
“Why not?”
Because I’m scared, I think to myself. “Because it’s not the right time.”
“That’s what everyone with a dream says. They always push it off until it’s too late. You shouldn’t do that. You should go after what you want. Don’t wait. You never know when you won’t have the chance again.”
I know deep down he’s right, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m still not ready.
So I don’t say anything. I just watch the streets go by before he eventually pulls into a modest neighborhood. It’s not one I’m too familiar with, as it’s something that went up shortly before I moved away.
“I’m just up here,” he says.
He pulls into the driveway of a newer ranch-style house, and I can safely say it’s not at all what I was expecting. I figured he’d be in one of the townhomes or an apartment. Definitely not a white-picket-fence-worthy house with an oversize two-car garage.
“This is nice,” I say as he puts the car in park.
He shrugs. “It’s home. Needs a bigger garage, but it’s not bad.”
“Bigger? How many cars do you have?”
“Five.”
“Five? I don’t even have one that runs!”
“A problem for another day. Now come on. Let’s get inside before the pizza gets cold.”
His hand brushes against mine as he grabs the box and pushes open his car door. If he feels the electric jolts, too, he doesn’t show it. He just gets out of the car and leaves me sitting there, the folder clutched tightly in my hands.
I take a deep breath, trying to ignore what a bad idea this was, then grab the handle.
Only it’s not there—the door’s been wrenched open, and Ezra is standing there.
I peer up at him in shock because, well, I am shocked. I didn’t think Ezra had a single gentlemanly bone in his body.
Enigma. That’s what he is. There’s no other way to describe him.
“Did you change your mind?”
“Hmm?” I realize I’m still sitting in the car, staring at him. “Oh, right.”
I climb out, Ezra stepping back to give me space, and I almost wish he hadn’t.
No, no. Not that. I’m annoyed by him, remember? Be annoyed by him, Summer!
But I’m not, even though I wish I were. He’s so hot and cold, but so are my feelings toward him, and I just wish we could each pick a lane and stay there.
Maybe tonight will be the night we get back on track and strike a balance.
I follow him into his house, and as soon as we step inside, I’m hit with the same scent I always am when I’m too close to him, but this time it’s everywhere.
He flips on a light, then takes off his shoes. I do the same and trail behind him deeper into the house, taking it in as we go.
The first thing I notice is how clean it is. And I don’t just mean he’s good at picking up behind himself. I mean clean. There’s nothing out of place anywhere, which is so funny, because I’ve been in his office before, and his desk is usually a complete wreck.
No photos line the walls, very few knickknacks sit on the bookshelves that take up one side of the living room, and his couch looks like nobody has ever sat on it.
We step into this kitchen—which is equally untouched—and I want to cry at the beautiful stove he has.
“Do you approve?” he asks, setting the pizza on the counter.
“Approve? Are you kidding me? I could kill for a stove like this. It’s gorgeous.”
He laughs lightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone call a stove gorgeous before.”
“Then you’re not hanging out with the right people.”
“Clearly,” he deadpans. He flicks his chin toward the fridge—again, gorgeous—and says, “Grab us some drinks? I’ll get plates.”
I pull open the stainless-steel door and laugh.
“What?”
“Um, you realize your fridge is empty, right?”
“No, it’s not. There’s ranch dressing in there. Cider too.”
“And not much else. Do you not cook at all?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.
He shrugs as he reaches into the cabinet. “Sometimes, but it’s nothing like what you do.”
I’m not proud of it, but I stick my head farther into the fridge at his compliment. I have to or else he’ll see just how red my cheeks are.
When I feel like I don’t look strawberry red, I grab us two ciders and take them to the counter.
Ezra plates the pizza, and we settle onto the stools tucked beneath the island.
I can’t help but groan at the first bite of pizza. “Holy shit. This is so good.”
“Right?” He eats half the slice in one bite, chews, then swallows. “It’s easily my favorite part of living here.”
“Where did you move here from?”
“Technically, Minnesota,” he says, popping open his cider. It’s Empty Net, my favorite. “I went back home after . . .”
His words trail off, and I instantly know what he means—the hockey accident that took him out of the game for good.
He clears his throat. “Before that, I was in Tennessee for three years.”
“Did you like it?”
“It wasn’t bad, but it was not a place I could see myself settling down.
Too crowded for me. I’m sure this might come as a shock, but I’m not much of a people person, so I didn’t love the going-out culture they had, you know?
It felt like every night the guys wanted to hit up a bar or something, and I wasn’t down for that. ”
“Yet now you own a bar.”
“It’s not a bar. It’s a cidery. There’s a difference.”
He has me there. Sure, Stick Taps serves alcohol like a bar does, but it’s nowhere near the same vibe as Hank’s here in town.
“Besides, I might own a bar, but it’s not like I’m really that involved with the day-to-day of actual . . . barring.”
“Barring?” I laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how you use that word.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Whatever. I’m tired. Leave me alone.”