Chapter Three Ezra
Chapter Three
Ezra
If hockey taught me anything, it’s that you can function on very little sleep if you put your mind to it.
It’s a good thing, too, considering I didn’t sleep for shit yet again last night. It’s become a trend for me these days, and it’s one I’d really wish would fade. But until then, I guess I’ll continue to show up on just four hours of shut-eye and get my shit done.
I push my key into the door of Stick Taps, working as fast as I can to get inside to avoid the rain.
Once in, I flick on the lights and move through the empty cidery to the employee break room, where there’s a coffeepot calling my name.
Not only do I need to warm up after dealing with the random summer downpour, but I am in desperate need of caffeine.
I tossed and turned all night. Some of it was because my hip was sore from the intense physical therapy session I had on Friday, and some because I stayed up way too late working on stuff for the cidery and the iceplex.
But the rest? I couldn’t stop thinking about the shitstorm that I managed to get myself into with Sheriff Turner.
He’s blackmailing me. There’s no doubt about that.
The worst part is that I don’t entirely blame him for doing it. He’s let me off easy too many times to count, and I guess it’s only fair I finally have consequences for my actions.
I just wish he weren’t forcing me to hire his daughter.
His very attractive daughter. I didn’t want to notice her shoulder-length brown hair, her bangs, or the dark freckle that sits just to the right of her nose.
And I really didn’t want to notice her chocolaty eyes that have little flecks of gold in them, or her ruby-red lips, and how perfectly pouty they were as she called me on my shit.
“And you sound like an ass.”
I keep replaying Summer Turner’s words on a loop. They were honest, and it was refreshing. I can’t recall the last time someone called me out like that, other than Noah and Odette.
All my employees act like I’m some big bad wolf, and while I prefer that, I kind of like the challenge.
I think that’s what having Summer work at Stick Taps will be, though—a challenge, and I’m not sure I have the time for that. I have too much going on as it is.
I make a fresh pot of coffee, noting the time on the clock hanging over the door, and frown.
8:05.
Summer is late.
If she were anyone else, I’d fire her on the spot, but I have a feeling Sheriff Turner wouldn’t take too kindly to that.
It’s fifteen after when I hear banging on the front door.
Instead of rushing out to rescue Summer from the rain that’s only picked up since I’ve been inside, I take my time.
She made me wait. It’s only fair I return the favor.
When I finally make my way out of the central area of the cidery, she’s glaring at me through the large windows like I’m the one who has inconvenienced her.
“Hello?!” she shouts, gesturing to the door. “Let me in!”
I stroll casually toward her, still not bothering to pick up my pace, and when I finally unlock and pull open the door, she rushes inside with a hard stare.
“Seriously? I was knocking for five minutes.”
That’s a lie. It wasn’t even two.
“And what’s with that chicken out there? It was looking at me like it was about to attack me.”
I look beyond her to see that—once again—Tootsie has escaped.
I’ll deal with her later. Right now I’m focused on Summer and the fact that she was late.
Was it really that difficult to be on time when I’m doing her and her father a favor by letting her work here?
I know the cidery isn’t hard to find, which means she’s clearly not taking this seriously.
“That’s Tootsie. She’s harmless.”
“Okay,” she says, stretching the word like she doesn’t believe me as she wipes her feet on the floor mat. “I did not miss this rain when I was in Chicago.”
Chicago? What the hell was she doing all the way out there?
Wait. No. I don’t care about the why. She’s my employee. Who cares about her personal life?
Summer shakes off the last bit of rain, running her hands through her bangs like she’s trying to contain them, then stares up at me with brown eyes that nearly match the color of her hair.
She shimmies off her dark-green rain jacket, revealing a pair of black shorts that are entirely too fucking short and a white T-shirt that hugs her far too well.
Fuck, I’ve never been so glad for someone bundling up in a raincoat before.
There’s no way her shirt wouldn’t be see-through if she hadn’t been wearing one.
I look away. Not because I don’t like what I see—I do—but I have no business looking at her at all.
I know that familiar stir in my pants is just because I haven’t been with someone in a long, long time, but it still irritates me.
“You’re late,” I tell her to distract myself.
“That’s because I sat in my driveway for fifteen minutes debating whether or not I even wanted to show up today.” She shrugs. “But I’m here now, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Her honesty shocks me, but I guess it shouldn’t, considering she did call me an ass the first time she met me.
I smirk at the memory of how feisty she was sitting in that interrogation room.
She’s scrappy, that much is clear, and I like that she doesn’t take shit from anyone, least of all me.
“Follow me,” I say, turning and heading back toward the break room to finish my coffee before we start the day.
Summer’s shoes—black canvas ones—smack against the floor as she follows behind me. She sets her bag on an empty chair, sliding her dripping coat over the back of it.
I make a mental note to grab a mop later to clean the mess, then sidle up to the coffeepot, grab a second mug from the cabinet above, and pour her a cup.
“Thanks,” she murmurs when I hand it to her. She curls her fingers around it, soaking up its warmth as she blows on the hot liquid.
I’m surprised when she takes a sip without adding anything to it. Most girls I know don’t take their coffee black. They prefer something with a bit of cream or sugar.
Guess I shouldn’t be too shocked, given her less-than-sweet disposition.
“This place looks nice,” she remarks, taking in the upscale break room.
Even though we’re just a cidery, Noah and I tried to provide the same sort of luxury we used to enjoy in our player lounges at the arenas. There’s something about feeling at home while you’re at work that makes you want to show up and do your job well.
“I like the floors.”
“I picked them,” I tell her.
She arches a brow at that. “Really?”
“What? A man can’t know a little something about decor? That’s not very feminist of you.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure you get to lecture women on what’s feminist and what isn’t.”
“Fair enough.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes, just enjoying our coffee in silence, and I try not to focus too much on the red lipstick she’s leaving behind on her mug.
“So,” she says, “what exactly is it I’ll be doing here?”
“Well, you could work outside with the animals.”
“Like the murder chicken out there?”
“I promise Tootsie is harmless.”
“I don’t know . . . she gave me those Watch your back eyes.”
“She’s just wary of new people sometimes.” I can’t believe I’m talking about a chicken like it’s a person. “Anyway, if you don’t want to work with them, you can work in here. The taproom is where we need help most, anyway.”
She grimaces, and I can tell she hates the idea of it, but we need another reliable bartender. We’re getting busier and busier each night, and there just aren’t enough people to make it flow as smoothly as I’d like.
“Look, if you don’t want to do this, just say the word.”
“I don’t want to do this,” she says simply. “But I got myself into this mess, and you’re clearly already doing my father a favor. So I’ll . . .” She blows out a steadying breath. “I’ll work in the taproom.”
I don’t know if she’s that stubborn or just ready to tackle her fears, but I nod anyway. “Okay. Taproom it is.”
Coffee cups in hand, we head out to the bar. Aware of Summer behind me, I do my best not to let my uneven gait show. It’s not always prominent, and I like to think most people don’t even notice it now, but I know it’s there. Fuck, do I know it’s there. This . . . weakness of mine.
I hate it, and not just because of the stares I get.
I hate it because it’s a reminder of everything I lost. Everything I could have had and now don’t.
Even though I’m thankful for the years I got on the ice, it wasn’t enough. I wanted more, and now I’ll never get it. So I have to settle for finding a thrill in other ways, like my slight speeding addiction. It’s the only thing that makes me forget about my shit mobility.
Pushing those thoughts away, I step behind the bar and reach under the register for the stack of papers I stashed there a few weeks ago.
“First things first, you need to fill out an application.”
“What? You were serious about that?” Summer asks, settling onto a stool, her coffee cup at her lips.
“Yes,” I say, thrusting a piece of paper her way. “I’m a records guy, and we need to make this seem legit.”
Mostly for Noah. I haven’t exactly told him about our newest employee just yet, and I really don’t want to hear another lecture on my speeding problem.
“You getting arrested would be a bad look for the business, Ezra.” That’s what he said after my last ticket.
But I don’t think anything we do would reflect poorly on the business.
Noah is this town’s golden child. He could probably set the local diner on fire and still be lifted on the people’s shoulders as a hero.
It’s great for us, but he’s right. We’re held to higher standards than others, and we need to act like it. Which means I really, really need to stop drawing the attention of the local law enforcement.
“Ugh. Fine. Do you have a pen?”
I grab one from the cup next to the register and hand it to her.
She hunches down, scanning over the paper before she starts filling out the little boxes.
She’s quiet as she works, and I flick my attention between her answers and the way her brows cinch together the further along she goes.
“Do I really need to write down my last three jobs?” she asks, not looking up from her work.
“Fill it out entirely. Don’t want to make anyone suspicious.”
She groans but does as she’s told.
When she’s finished, I take the paper and look over everything closely. Under education, she put Enough, and in her previous jobs, she wrote Does it matter? I’m here now.
Part of me wants to call her on this, but can I really do that when I find them amusing? Besides, I’d bet she’d have a comeback, and it’s too fucking early to be dealing with that now. My workload is maxed out today. I have much more important things to do than argue with Summer.
“Well?” she asks. “Did I pass your test?”
I glance back up at her. “You did.”
“Good.” She grins, and it almost looks like she’s genuinely happy about that. “So, what’s first, boss?”
The single word is so loaded, and it gives me the perfect idea for what I need her help with this morning, after I get her acquainted with the layout of the place.
“You’ve never been here before, right?”
“No. I was already in Chicago when this place opened.”
There’s that mention of Chicago again.
Just like the first time, I pretend I hear nothing, then motion for her to follow me. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour.”
We leave our now-empty coffees on the bar top, and I show her around the cidery. I stick to just giving her a tour of the place. No personal questions, no anecdotes. It’s all very straightforward and cold.
Summer can tell.
“And I’m guessing this is where you stash the other victims of your thrilling tours?” she asks once we stop in front of a closed door with a plaque that reads Employees Only.
“No. It’s where you’ll be spending the rest of your shift.”
I push open the door, and I see the moment irritation fills her eyes.
“The stockroom?”
“Yep. The stockroom.”
“And what, exactly, am I supposed to do in here?”
“Organize it.”
“Organ—” She purses her lips, her brows pinching together tightly. “Are you serious?”
“Very.”
“I thought I was working in the taproom.”
I knock my fingers against the wall above the door. “This is the taproom.”
“This is a room in the basement.”
“In the taproom.”
Her eyes fall to slits, and I just know she wants to keep arguing, but she doesn’t. She just blows out a heavy breath and mutters “Fine” before brushing past me and into the storage room.
I’m a little disappointed. Even though I don’t have time for it, I kind of wanted her to fight me. I want her to argue. I want to spar a bit longer.
Instead, she gets to work, and all it does is put me in a worse mood than I was already in.
With one last glance at her, while she’s already pulling stuff off the shelves, I head back upstairs to my office and bury myself in my work, putting Summer out of my eyeline and my mind.