Chapter Nine Ezra
Chapter Nine
Ezra
I haven’t seen Summer in five days now, with me running back and forth between the iceplex and trying to sort out our new arcade going in.
We’re up to ten different games, and based on the social media response to the announcement, that’s not going to be enough.
We need more, and selfishly, I want more.
I’ve been test-driving the pinball machines every night after work for far too many hours.
I was right in thinking it would be a stress reliever.
I think it’s the only thing that has kept me from going entirely off the rails while we get this off the ground and start planning for the new kitchen, which we now have just nine weeks to complete.
I watch the ball roll closer, then hit the button on the right side just in time, sending the silver sphere soaring up the playfield. The machine makes a bunch of noise, lights flash, and my score goes up, up, up on the little screen in the middle.
It’s annoying how elated it makes me, especially since none of this matters at all.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
I jump at the intrusion and turn to find Summer leaning against the doorway to the new arcade. The area used to be semiprivate and quieter, with seating, but not many people came back here, so I figured this would be a great place to convert into something more engaging for customers.
“What are you doing here? Here to say you’ve come to your senses and will help us with the kitchen?”
Her eyes narrow for a moment. “My senses . . .” she repeats disdainfully. “My answer is still no, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I try not to show how disappointed I am by that.
I’ve spent the last five days trying to sort out what exactly we all need to make the kitchen better, but since my skills are more of the “poorly fry protein, put noodles in pot, open jar” caliber, I have no idea what I’m doing.
I could use her help more than she realizes.
“Then what are you doing here?” I ask again.
“Uh, closing?” Sarcasm drips from each word. It’s maddening how attractive I find it.
I draw my eyes away from the peachy strip of skin that’s peeking out between her jeans and cropped top and right up to the ruby-red lipstick she’s always wearing.
No, not her lips, dammit.
I clear my throat. “Since when? You weren’t supposed to be working tonight.”
She looks surprised by that. “Do you have my schedule memorized or something?”
“What? No.”
But I say the words far too quickly for them to be believable.
I do have her schedule memorized, and I hate myself for it. I don’t know why I care, other than to be able to ask her about the kitchen again. Still, I shouldn’t know it. I should just wait to run into her, and that’s it.
“I’m covering for Warner,” she explains, letting me have my crappy lie. “He said he had a thing again with his grandmother.”
“His other other grandmother?”
She wrinkles her nose. “He’s totally lying, isn’t he?”
“Big-time.” I make a mental note to have a chat with him about that. If he doesn’t want the hours, I’ll happily give them to someone else.
“Well, whatever,” she says, coming into the arcade and standing at the machine next to me. I dig into my pocket, then pop a few quarters into the change slot for her. “I knew the place could use the extra hands with trivia night. Not like I had anything else going on anyway.”
There’s no missing the bitterness in her words. I bet Port Harbor is nothing compared to the fun she was used to having in Chicago.
“I mean, it’s not like I used to go out a lot before coming back here,” she says, pulling back the plunger and letting the ball fly. “But at least I had a few friends to hang out with. Here, all I have is Odette and Noah, and no offense to them, but I have no desire to be their third wheel.”
“That’s what I tell them every time Odette is on my ass about not hanging out with them. Right.”
“Huh?”
She looks over at me just as her ball goes soaring right between the flippers.
She frowns, and I chuckle.
“Shut up,” she practically growls. “That was your fault.”
“Was not. And you get another, so suck it up and do better.”
Summer shoots me a dirty look before launching the ball again. She doesn’t miss it the first few times it comes toward her, but she doesn’t do a good job of hitting it either. It goes nowhere near where it should.
“Left,” I say, and she hits the button a second too late. “Faster.”
“Faster? What do you mean?”
“I mean, press the button faster. Sooner. Right.”
“Stop telling me what to do!” she yells as she hits the left button.
“Right, right.”
“Shut up!”
“Left.”
“I swear—”
“Right.”
“Ezra!”
She panics and smashes both buttons repeatedly. The ball flies all over the playfield, hitting bumpers and spinners, and I laugh at the absolute terror on her face as she tries to keep it in play.
Honestly, it’s not the worst strategy I’ve seen, but I’m not shocked when she loses again.
“Ugh, this is all your fault!” She points an accusatory finger at me. “You made me suck.”
“I did not.”
“Did too. Right, left, right, right,” she says with a low voice, that I assume is supposed to sound like me but isn’t even close.
“Are you . . . mocking me?”
“Yes.”
She says it so quickly and defiantly that I can’t help but laugh. And I don’t mean a quick one this time. It’s deep and rich and right from my belly.
Which is why it takes me so long to realize she’s staring at me with the goofiest grin.
“What?” I ask after sobering up.
She shakes her head. “It’s just . . . you just have a really nice laugh, you know that?”
Suddenly my cheeks feel warm, and I know it has nothing to do with my laughing.
Am I . . . embarrassed? Holy fuck, I can’t remember the last time that happened.
“I can say with certainty that nobody has ever said that to me before.”
“Is that because you rarely laugh?”
“I laugh.”
She points at the spot between my eyebrows. “You scowl more often than laugh.”
“Well, nobody ever gives me anything to laugh about. Which is other people’s problem, not mine. Oh, sorry. I’m sure that makes me ‘sound like an ass,’ doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does. But it’s still funny.”
Her perfectly shaded brown eyes sparkle with humor, and her lips turn up in the corners like she’s about to laugh. It’s so fucking cute. She’s so cute.
It feels like I’m standing in the kitchen all over again, and the urge to kiss her strikes me so fast that I nearly stumble backward.
Don’t do it, Ezra. Don’t fucking do it.
Still, I find myself moving closer. Then again.
I can’t stop myself even though I know I should. Her eyes flick to my lips, then back again, and fuck. I’m barely holding on right now.
I want to kiss her more than I’ve ever wanted to kiss anyone before.
“Ezra, what are you doing?”
Though her words come out in a whisper, they’re the loudest thing I’ve ever heard, and it’s enough to snap me out of my stupor.
I shove my shaking hands into my pockets, then nod toward the pinball machine she’s practically pressed against. “I’m teaching you how to play pinball.”
She swallows roughly, then spins around, and I exhale for what feels like the first time in minutes.
“Then get on with it, Mr. Rawlings.”
And that’s how we spend the next thirty minutes—her pressed against the machine, me standing over her shoulder, instructing her when to hit the buttons.
She’s terrible at it, but I don’t care.
It’s still the best thirty minutes I’ve had all day.
I’m not playing fair, but I can’t find it in me to care.
I take all calls about the kitchen remodel in the taproom within earshot of her. I purposefully ask absurd questions, just to see her reaction.
Yesterday she had to walk out of the room twice, then she went on a five-minute rant about the different kinds of gas stoves, which is the best to buy, and why.
I think I smiled the whole way through it, then asked her to be our chef again.
She threw a towel at me and stomped away.
If she were anyone else, I’d have fired her on the spot, but I can’t seem to make myself do it when it comes to her, because, for the first time in a really long damn time, I’m actually having fun.
Maybe Odette was right before, because this feels nothing like all the other “fun” I was claiming to have.
“Are you serious?”
I barely hold my laugh in as I look up from the stack of invoices I’m shuffling through. “What can I help you with, Ms. Turner?”
Her glower would scare lesser men, but not me.
“An Easy-Bake Oven?” she practically yells as she marches into the small space.
She shuts the door behind her, and while part of me is grateful for it since we have a room full of customers who don’t need to witness this, I wish she had left it open. Maybe I’d trust myself to behave a little more if that were the case.
I’ve almost kissed her twice now, and I’m not so sure I’ll be able to hold back if there’s a third time.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“You know damn well what the problem is. You’re doing this to get my attention, Ezra.”
Summer stands over me, her hands on her hips. She’s referring to me ordering an Easy-Bake Oven and placing it in the kitchen with a note that says Our New Oven. It was ridiculous, but it worked.
“I know you’re tormenting me so that I’ll give you what you want,” she continues. “Despite knowing that, I hate myself because . . . because . . .”
“Because it’s working?”
“Yes!” She tosses her hands into the air. “Yes, it’s fucking working, and I don’t want it to work. Or maybe I do. I don’t know.”
She’s pacing back and forth in front of my desk now, and I watch her as she goes from left to right.
Left. Right.
Left. Right.
It almost makes me feel bad for messing with her.
Then I remember that delicious mac and cheese she made me, and the remorse goes right out the window.
I don’t feel bad at all. This is clearly her calling, and it’s also obvious she misses it.
The kitchen here might not be as extravagant as she’s used to in Chicago, but at least it’s better than slinging drinks.
Not that there’s anything wrong with tending bar, but there is a problem with it when you’re as talented as Summer is.