Chapter Four Summer
Chapter Four
Summer
Ezra Rawlings is ridiculously good looking, but that’s all he is. Outside of that, he’s a downright ass.
So I ignore him. I pretend he’s not somewhere in the cidery. I act like he doesn’t even exist as I work to rearrange the stockroom into something that actually makes sense.
I have no idea who they had do this before, but they did an awful job at it. I’m surprised, considering how nice the rest of the place is.
When I first pulled up to Stick Taps, I was annoyed because it was raining. Then I was even more irritated when Ezra took forever to open the door for me. And again when he made me fill out that pointless application.
But after I got over all that and he was giving me a tour, I couldn’t believe how beautiful the place is.
It’s much bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside.
An open-concept layout welcomes you when you walk through the doors with an incredible view of the Cascades in the background, thanks to the windows that take up the back side.
A bar with a stunning wooden top to the right and more seating and tables to the left.
Everything is clean and modern, and the vast amounts of hockey memorabilia could keep anyone busy for a few hours.
I can’t believe I haven’t made my way here before now.
Sure, I’ve been busy taking care of my dad, but this is the exact kind of place where I could see myself grabbing a drink or two.
Maybe I would have come sooner if I felt like I had people to hang out with.
I’ve been so wrapped up in taking care of my dad that I didn’t realize how lonely I’ve been feeling since coming back.
My stomach rumbling pulls me from my dreary thoughts, and I realize quickly it’s because all I’ve had today is two cups of coffee.
Dropping what I’m working on, I go in search of food.
I pause as I approach the kitchen, and the urge to push open the swinging door is automatic.
It’s not that I haven’t cooked since I quit the restaurant.
I make my father dinner every night. I just haven’t been in a real kitchen since then.
One with people buzzing around, yelling requests, or that sweet melodic sound of vegetables being chopped.
Hell, I haven’t picked up a good set of knives or donned my chef’s whites in over a month.
Considering cooking was once my life, it’s strange.
It’s weird not hearing people yell “Yes, Chef,” “Behind,” or “Corner” every few moments.
I miss it more than I thought I would, especially since I was so damn miserable before I left Chicago.
Shaking myself from the thoughts of what once was, I bypass the door with the little window on it and head for the fancy break room that looked like it could be stocked with snacks.
My eyes catch the clock on the microwave as I walk in, and I see that it’s nearly noon. Damn, I had no idea so much time had passed—no wonder I’m hungry.
I yank open cabinets until I find something worthwhile, and I nearly cry when I see a box of cheese crackers.
“Oh my god, yes,” I say, practically tearing open the package.
I pour the contents straight into my mouth, chewing loudly, and my stomach finally begins to settle.
“Uh, can I help you?”
I snap my head up to find a guy—a very attractive guy, might I add—staring at me wide-eyed from the doorway.
“What?” I ask around a mouthful of food, trying not to stare too hard at his dark-blond hair or how tan he is for someone who lives in the Pacific Northwest.
“I said, ‘Can I help you?’ Do you, um, work here?” He pokes his head back out the door and looks down the hall like he’s searching for something. What, I don’t know.
“Oh, sorry.” I run my hand across the back of my mouth. “Yes, I do. Work here, I mean.”
He tips his head to the side like he’s studying me, like he doesn’t believe me. “Since when?”
“Today is my first day. I’m Summer.”
I give him a small wave and instantly curse myself for doing so. It’s awkward. This whole situation is. And I really just want to eat these crackers in peace so I can go back to my organizing.
His face relaxes, and a big grin stretches across his lips. “Cool. Hi, Summer. I’m Warner.”
“Hi,” I respond weakly.
Warner laughs, then finally comes into the break room with me. “So,” he says as he pulls open the stainless-steel fridge. “How are my crackers? Hitting the spot?”
I blink a few times, his words settling in, and when they do, I realize my mistake. “Oh my god.”
Neither of us misses the crumbs that fly out of my mouth.
I wipe at my messy face and rush to close the cracker box.
Another chuckle as he grabs a bottle of water. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
“Are you—” I swallow the final handful. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. Totally sure.” He nods, then hands me the water before turning to grab a new one.
“Thanks,” I mutter, cracking open the top and taking a long drink. I didn’t realize how dry my mouth was until just now. “And sorry. I had no idea they were your crackers. I thought it was like a communal thing.”
“I guess it is now.”
Then he winks and I feel . . . nothing.
Not that I want to feel anything—I’m certainly not interested in starting something with anyone, especially since this stint in Port Harbor is temporary—but aren’t you supposed to get butterflies when a cute guy winks at you?
“So, first day, huh?” I nod. “Did you just get here?”
“Huh? Oh, no. I’ve been here since eight.”
“Eight?” He wrinkles his nose. “But we don’t open until one.”
Then why the hell did Ezra have me come in at eight? Is this some sort of game he’s playing? And furthermore, how long am I even working today? We didn’t discuss any of this.
I shrug. “Don’t ask me. Talk to the boss.”
“Noah isn’t here today.”
“The other boss.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding. “You mean Grump Ass.”
I laugh—it’s loud and quick and thoroughly embarrassing. “Sorry. I just . . . you call him Grump Ass?”
“Yeah, but don’t say that too loud. We—me and the others who work here—have this theory that if you say his name three times, he’ll appear.”
“Like Beetlejuice?”
“More like Bloody Mary.”
“Is he really that scary?”
Warner weighs his answer for a moment before saying, “Nah. Ezra is a good guy. Really. He’s just a bit . . .”
“Of an ass?”
His impossibly bright blue eyes sparkle as he laughs.
“Yeah, that. But you get used to his grouchiness quickly and learn when to avoid him. And honestly, it’s not that hard to do.
He doesn’t come out of his office very often.
Out of the two of them, Noah is the one you’ll see more, and while he can be a bit cantankerous, too, he’s much easier to deal with. ”
Huh. I don’t recall Noah being testy, but I suppose a lot can change when you haven’t seen someone in years.
“So, Summer,” he says, and I notice he does that a lot—starts a sentence with So. It’s kind of endearing, almost like he’s nervous. “Are you new in Port Harbor?”
I laugh. “Hardly. I grew up here.”
He looks surprised by this. “No way?”
“Yep. I, uh, my father is . . .” I trail off.
I don’t know why I always get cagey when I talk about him.
It’s not like I’m not proud of him and what he does for this community.
I am. But every time I mention that my father is the sheriff, people have two reactions: They clam up and start acting weird or ask if I can get them out of a ticket or something.
I guess that’s what I’m doing here with Ezra as well. I’m getting him out of trouble. Myself too.
“My father is Sheriff Turner,” I finally say.
Warner grins. “That’s awesome. I bet you get away with a lot in this town, then.”
If he only knew the reason I was working here.
“What about you?” I ask him. “Are you new in town?”
Port Harbor may be small, and I might have grown up here, but it doesn’t mean I know everyone, despite what some people may think. And considering I’ve been in Chicago since I was nineteen, many people have come and gone. In a way, I feel like a newcomer in my own hometown.
“Sort of. I moved here about five years ago now. Followed a girl.” He shrugs, a wistful smile on his lips. “It didn’t work out, but I fell in love with the town. I like that it’s close to Seattle but not so close that it doesn’t feel like its own little world, you know?”
I do know what he means. Port Harbor truly has always felt like its own special place, even with all the sad memories I have here surrounding my mother and her cancer. It’s a far cry from living in a big city, and all it took was twenty-four hours here to remind me how much I missed it.
Maybe that’s why I’m still here, even though my dad is doing well after his “incident.” I wanted comfort. I wanted somewhere familiar. I wanted to feel safe.
I wanted home.
“This is a magical place,” I say, eating another handful of crackers.
“Exactly! You get it.” He bumps his shoulder against mine, then takes a drink from his water. “Definitely not without its entertainment either. I heard someone got arrested at the Mid-Summer Fling. The first time that I actually wish I had attended it. I would have loved to see that.”
I duck my head at his comments.
I guess word hasn’t gotten out just who was detained at the event. God, I can’t believe I did that. Don’t get me wrong—I stand by my comments. But maybe my dad was right. Maybe I should have chosen a better time to let my feelings be heard.
That seems to be a pattern for me—picking the worst times to let everything I bottle up shake free.
It’s what landed me in the unemployment line just six months after being appointed head chef, everything I had worked toward for years.
But I don’t want to think about that. Right now I just want to get through this punishment of working at Stick Taps and figure everything else out later. It’s not like my dad is going to kick me out of his place. I have time to . . . well, take my time.
And if I’m being honest, I’m not ready to leave yet either. I like being so close to my dad again. While being back in Port Harbor after so long might make me feel like a bit of a newbie, it still feels like being wrapped in a favorite old blanket, and that’s just what I need right now.
“Warner.”
We both snap to attention.
Ezra leans against the door in all his math teacher–like attire. He’s rolled his sleeves up since I saw him last, maybe ran his hand through his black hair a bit.
He looks good. Too good.
“Don’t you have a taproom to open?” he asks, not taking his hard eyes off the guy next to me.
I hear Warner swallow thickly. “Uh, yeah. Right. Sorry, boss. Lost track of time.”
“We should have unlocked the door ten minutes ago.”
“I—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Take action.” Ezra’s words are sharp, his jaw set tight.
Warner looks to me. “Uh, see you out there, I guess?”
“Sure,” I tell him, even though I doubt it’s true. I still have work to do in the storage room.
He gives me a small wave before rushing past Ezra, head down.
His boss watches him go, then turns that fiery stare to me.
My first instinct is to make myself smaller, hoping maybe he won’t notice me. How could it not be with eyes like those boring into me? But I’m rarely the one to ever back down from a challenge, so I don’t.
Instead, I tip my chin higher, meeting his heated glare. “What.”
I don’t even form it as a question.
“This isn’t social hour. You’re here to work.”
“Do I not get breaks at work? Because if I don’t, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal or something.”
His jaw tightens as he pushes off the door. Even from across the room, he looks impossibly tall. “Are you ever not a brat?”
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
He looks like he wants to say something about that. Instead, he settles on, “You get breaks. We’re not tyrants.”
“Well, then I’m taking a break. I’m almost done with the stockroom.”
“Seriously?”
“What? Didn’t think I’m capable of organizing a few shelves?”
“I—” He snaps his mouth closed, then exhales heavily through his nose. “No. I was just hoping that would take you a little longer.”
Interesting.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have the time to babysit you today. I have other shit to do.”
“So much to do that you’re in here bothering me on my break.”
I’m pushing it. I know I am. I see it in the way the vein on his head is getting more prominent the longer we stand here in this little face-off.
He takes a step into the room, then another, and another. It’s amazing how much space his long legs eat up, because I swear, he cut the room in half with just three steps.
“You’re awfully bold for someone who is reaping the benefits of a favor.”
“Favor?” I ask.
I push off the counter with a laugh, setting the box of crackers down. I approach until I’m just close enough to be suddenly hit with the scent of soap and laundry detergent. If this were any other moment, I might find it nice. But right now, I’m pissed.
My breaths are coming in sharp, and my lungs are burning like I’ve just run a marathon.
“You call this a favor? News flash: I didn’t ask to work here, Mr. Rawlings. I’m being forced to, just like you’re being forced to hire me. I assure you, neither of us is doing the other a favor.”
His eyes narrow even farther, and he points a finger at me. I’m almost 100 percent certain he’s about to tell me to get out. That he’s about to fire me and risk losing his license.
But he doesn’t.
He drops his arm finally, running a hand through his midnight hair before he says, “Go back to work, Summer.”
Then he spins on his heel, walks out of the break room, and leaves me standing there with cracker crumbs on my fingers and a dry mouth.
I was right before—Ezra is an ass.
Yet despite all that, I haven’t felt so alive in months.