Chapter Two Summer #2
So I swallow down that rebelliousness that lives inside me, the part of me who wants to argue just because I can, and I nod. “Where exactly is it that I’m working now?”
Dad grins, leaning away from me as he motions toward Mr. Rawlings to let him explain.
“Stick Taps,” the guy with the gruff voice says, running his hand over the stubble on his chin.
“What’s that?”
I know what it is. I just like the way Mr. Rawlings narrows his eyes at me.
“The cidery-slash-farm on the outskirts of town.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Summer . . .” my father warns.
He knows I’m fully aware of what Stick Taps is.
Even though I haven’t come home often since the cidery opened, it’s kind of hard to avoid with how much the people in this town won’t shut up about it, since one of the owners is none other than the town’s star, Noah Stevens.
He played in the NHL for a long, long time, and the town rallied behind him all those years.
Whenever he was in the playoffs, there wasn’t a place you could go that wasn’t blasting the game on the TV, including the library.
Now everyone can’t stop talking about how he’s engaged and has turned his cidery into a wedding venue on the side. It was supposed to be a onetime thing for his younger sister, Izzy, but even though her marriage never happened, it still became a sought-after location for other nuptials.
I’m happy for Noah and all his success. He was always a nice guy, and I ran in the same circles as his sister and fiancée, even though they were a grade older than me. But it doesn’t mean I want to work for him.
I want to . . . well, I’m not entirely sure what I want to do anymore. I thought I knew. I spent years in culinary school and training in kitchens around Chicago before landing my role as executive chef. I made a name for myself. I had a good reputation, and I ruined it all with one bad day.
Lore was supposed to be the city’s hottest new restaurant, and it was for a time. Then things got messy with their first chef, and they quit. I thought I could come in and rescue it, but all it did was break me.
What I believed would be my dream job turned out to be my worst nightmare. It made me question everything, including the passion that had driven me to cook or want my own restaurant in the first place.
Even still, working at a cidery in a small Washington State town feels like a step down after running a kitchen of that magnitude. My father must be serious about this punishment.
“What exactly will I be doing at this cidery?” I say the word with enough disdain that Mr. Rawlings’s nostrils flare.
I’m being petulant. I know that, but I can’t stop myself.
My father sends me another warning look before he announces he’s going to grab the paperwork to release me, leaving me alone with the stranger.
The door closes behind him with such finality that it startles me.
The chair across from me scrapes against the floor as my new employer sits. He winces as he settles onto the metal seat.
He ignores it, and so do I.
“So,” I say when he doesn’t speak, “what’d he clock you at?”
There’s almost a twitch to his lips. “One ten.”
I let out a low whistle.
“In a fifty,” he adds.
My eyes widen. “And he didn’t write you a ticket that would land you in court?”
“Surprisingly, no.” He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. His muscles stretch against the material of his shirt like they’re threatening to bust loose, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
I do, maybe a little too much.
“I got lucky,” he continues, “considering this would have been my third ticket in less than three months.”
I arch a brow. “Lead foot?”
“I like to go fast.” He shrugs, not looking the least bit apologetic, and I like that. “What was your crime? Had to be bad if Sheriff Turner hauled his own daughter into the station.”
“Actually, that was Deputy Jenkins.”
“Fucking Jenkins.” He repeats my dad’s words, and it makes me grin.
“I might have stirred up the crowd at the Mid-Summer Fling.”
Another near twitch of his lips. “And how, exactly, did you do that?”
“Went on a bit of a rant about the patriarchy.”
He nods. “Makes sense.”
“Excuse me?”
“The patriarchy sucks.” He sits forward and folds his hands together on the table. A piece of his black hair falls over his eye, and I have the strangest urge to reach across the table and brush it back. I resist. “Why, what’d you think I meant?”
“I was waiting for you to call me an insufferable feminist.”
No twitch this time. No reaction at all.
Okay then . . .
I clear my throat. “Anyway, I guess I hit a button with Jenkins, and the next thing I knew, I was in cuffs and in the back of his squad car.”
“And now you’re being blackmailed into working for me.”
“I take it you’re the other owner of Stick Taps?”
He looks a little stricken that I’m asking. It’s almost like he’s shocked I’m not falling at his feet or something.
I suppose it’s not surprising, given that if the rumors are true about the owners, he was once a big shot hockey player. I bet people used to worship him. Too bad for him that I’ll never be included in that list.
“That’s me,” he confirms.
“Well, thanks for the sympathy hire and all, Mr. Rawlings, but I’m not interested.”
He tips his head to the side, like he’s studying me, and I shift under his gaze.
“Ezra,” he says after several uncomfortable moments.
“What?”
“Ezra. My name is Ezra.”
Ezra. I test his name in my head a few times. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. It suits him, though.
“I’m Summer.”
Okay, that was definitely a twitch of his lips.
“I know,” he says. “Summer Anne Turner.”
Great. Guess he didn’t miss my dad’s little speech earlier.
I bet Ezra thinks I need to grow up too.
I twist my lips to the side, crossing my arms over my chest as I narrow my eyes at my new boss. “Look, whatever preconceived notions you have about me, you’re wrong. I—”
“I don’t.”
“Pardon?”
“I don’t have any preconceived notions about you. How could I? I’ve spent all of five minutes with you, and most of those minutes included your father, who pulled me over again. If anything, I have preconceived notions about him.”
“My father is a good man.” I notch my chin higher.
“Tell that to my lawyer, who keeps having to handle all these tickets.”
I snort out a laugh. “You say that like this is all his fault and not yours. You were the one behind the wheel. You were the one speeding.”
“Because it feels good. I wasn’t causing any trouble.”
“Pretty sure doing over twice the speed limit invites trouble.”
“Not if you’re a good driver,” he argues.
“Say that to the teenager who isn’t paying attention or the single mother who takes her eyes off the road for one second.”
“That sounds like a them problem.”
“And you sound like an ass.”
Both of Ezra’s dark brows rise. That’s it, Summer. Insult your new boss before you’ve even started work. Good idea. This is definitely you growing up.
Instead of yelling at me, he laughs, and it catches me off guard.
“Yeah, I guess I am.” He runs a hand over his five o’clock shadow.
“Look, Summer,” he says, and I try hard to ignore how much I enjoy hearing my name roll off his tongue, “we really do need help at Stick Taps. While you’re certainly not my first candidate, if you know how to pour a drink, then I guess you’ll do. ”
“Gee, thanks. I feel so welcomed,” I deadpan.
Another lip twitch.
I sigh. “Okay, fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes. “Monday?”
“Monday works.”
“Great. Be there at eight.”
I balk. “In the morning?”
“Yes . . .”
“Who the hell is hanging out at a cidery at eight in the morning?”
“I am.” He pushes to his feet, and I have to tip my head back, back, back, just to look up at him. “See you then, Sunny.”
Sunny? Why the hell would he call me that?
I certainly don’t feel sunny knowing that as of tomorrow, I’ll have to work with Ezra Rawlings.
And how I might like the idea of that a bit too much.