Chapter Eleven Ezra
Chapter Eleven
Ezra
“I don’t give a shit what your boss said to you about the delivery. He promised me it would be here today, and I’m standing here looking at an empty hole where my Jurassic Park pinball machine is supposed to be.”
“I—I—I . . . Sorry, I . . .”
“Is that it? Do you have anything else to say?”
The guy on the other end of the phone sputters a few more unintelligible words, and all it does is piss me off more.
I’m in a sour mood today, and it’s not just because the machine I was promised has been delayed yet again.
It’s been three days since I last saw Summer, and I’m beginning to wonder if I completely fucked things up with her.
Not that there’s anything to fuck up since she’s just my employee and nothing can happen between us, but I was actually starting to enjoy working with her on the kitchen renovation.
I have no idea what I’m doing in that regard, and her expertise is greatly appreciated.
Right, Ezra. Because that’s all it is. Just her kitchen experience. Definitely not that you like spending time with her.
“Look, Kyle. It was Kyle, right?”
“Uh, Drake.”
“Fine, Drake. Whatever. Just get me my pinball machine by the end of the day tomorrow. I don’t give a shit who you have to piss off to make it happen, but make it fucking happen. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
“Good. Call me when the truck is on the road.”
Then I hang up.
It’s not usually how I conduct business, but I can’t find it in me to give a fuck right now.
I’ve been sleeping like shit, I’m up to my eyeballs in things to do, and I’m in desperate need of a vacation.
The only thing I have going for me right now is that my hip has decided to play nice and is only a dull throb today.
I’ll take the wins where I can get them.
“You good?”
I turn to find Noah staring at me with cautious eyes.
“Fine,” I bite out, but he doesn’t buy it. He can tell I’m on the brink of losing it.
“Drink?” he offers, already moving behind the bar.
I nod, then slide onto a stool.
I don’t typically drink during working hours, even when the social setting calls for it. I like to keep a clear head, but I could really use a good pour right now.
He fills a pint with Empty Net, one of our newer flavors that perfectly balances pear and peach. It’s sweet, damn good, and my current favorite. Then again, I’ve always had a bit of a sweet tooth.
“Thanks,” I mutter as he slides it my way. I take a healthy sip, then set it back down before he can even grab himself something.
He settles across from me with what I assume is Glove Save, which is his favorite. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“So you’re yelling at people on the phone for no reason?”
“I didn’t yell. I didn’t raise my voice a single time.”
Noah’s lips set in a firm line. I’m being technical, and he knows it. I might not have yelled, but I was certainly a dick.
I sigh, then scrub my hands over my face. “Fuck, man. I don’t know. I’m just . . . on edge, I guess. Getting stressed about shit.”
“Like what? Talk to me, Ez. We’re business partners, remember? You don’t have to carry this workload alone.”
I know that. I really do. However, I also know that Noah is extremely busy with our community iceplex and all the goings-on there, not to mention the numerous events we have scheduled here, managing the animals, and his upcoming wedding.
I mean, sure, Odette’s probably doing most of the work for it, being a wedding planner and all, but my point remains the same—he has enough going on too.
I can’t pitch in as physically as he can, so there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to handle things like paperwork and money.
“And don’t feed me some shit about how you don’t want to bother me or how you got it handled,” he says, essentially reading my mind. “Clearly you don’t, and that’s okay. Just say the word, and we’ll figure everything out together.”
Noah has always been this way. It’s why he captained his former NHL team for as long as he did.
The guy is good at figuring shit out, and he always wants to do it together.
I respect that. It’s why, when he came to me with the idea for the cidery, I wasn’t even remotely scared to pack up my life and move to Washington and bet on him and the business.
He continues to stare at me, and fuck if it’s working. My walls start to crumble.
“We’re behind schedule,” I say.
“Schedule for what?”
“The arcade. We’re supposed to have the big opening next weekend, and we’re still missing three machines, plus we’re slacking on getting the press info out.”
“Okay.” He nods. “So then let’s talk to Sophie about it. She’s the one who posts on our socials, right? Have her double her posting. Get some boots on the ground and hang flyers around town. Hit the places that already stock our cider.”
“And the missing machines?”
“Who cares? I mean, would it be ideal to have everything? Sure, but it’s not the end of the world if we don’t. We’ll just tell people when they come in that we’ll be adding more games and shit later. Give them an incentive to come back.”
He has a point there. Hell, it might actually be smart.
“That could work,” I say.
“It will work. What next?”
“What do you mean?”
“That can’t be all that’s stressing you out. What else is going on? You been sleeping okay?”
I shake my head. “Do I ever?”
“When your hip isn’t being a bitch, yes. Is that the issue?”
I want to tell him it’s always the issue, but it’s hard to explain chronic pain to someone who doesn’t live with it. They don’t understand that you don’t get breaks. You just get days that are easier than others. Right now it’s easier, but it doesn’t mean I’m not still dealing with the pain.
“My hip is my hip.”
He nods with a frown, and I hate the fucking sympathetic look he gets in his eyes. It’s the same one I always receive when I talk about my injury.
I think one of the only people not to look at me like that was Summer, and that’s frustrating on a whole different level.
“I had the contractors in here yesterday about the kitchen. It looks like it’s going to be a four-week renovation at a minimum, and they can’t start for another week. So we add in roughly another buffer week just in case, and we’ll be pushing it really fucking close to your wedding.”
“Shit.” It’s all he says, but that’s because he doesn’t have to say anything else.
I’m the one who promised him that if we did this, we’d have it done before his wedding so that we could use the kitchen for it.
Now I’m not so sure I can deliver, and it’s killing me.
I don’t want to let him down. I don’t give a shit about marriage myself, but I know it means something to Noah.
I want this day to be perfect for him and Odette.
“Well, there’s not much we can do about that now,” Noah says. “We already knew we’d be pushing it with the deadline, so this just gives us even more motivation to get it done. I can pitch in with the contractors. Get things moving faster.”
“Dude, Noah, no. I didn’t mean that you’d have to do that on top of everything else you’re dealing with. I just—”
“Let me handle it, okay? That’s my area, Mr. Numbers.”
He means it lightheartedly, I know he does.
But it still sucks because he’s right. That is his area, and it’s only because I can’t help him.
I’m sure I could swing a hammer for a bit or tear some tile out, but I can’t be down on my knees for long or stand on ladders or do just about anything else that wouldn’t have me in excruciating pain for days or weeks afterward.
I’m fucking useless.
“Fine,” I agree, pushing down the anger that always comes when I remember I’m never going to be able to move like I used to. “But I’m helping as much as I can, and you’re not going to argue with me about it.”
He wants to, but he doesn’t. “Speaking of the kitchen, Odette had lunch with Summer yesterday, and she’s really excited about the new menu.”
Everything in me perks up at the mention of Summer, and I tell myself it’s because I want this to work out for her too.
I want to see her happy like that night she cooked for me.
She can act as nonchalant as she wants about the whole thing, but I can tell she’s excited about the idea of overseeing another kitchen.
The way her face lit up when we were picking out equipment was like a little kid finding buried treasure. It was fascinating to watch.
I want to see that look again. I want this to work for her. I want Stick Taps to be a place people come to not just for cider, but for her menu too.
But I can’t tell Noah all that. He’ll think it means something else, and it doesn’t.
“Cool.”
“Cool?” Noah repeats. “That’s all you have to say?”
I lift a shoulder, taking another drink of my cider. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Aren’t you working closely with her on this? No comments or thoughts on the menu?”
“Not really. I trust her.” I mean that. I trust Summer to make the best menu she can for the cidery, just like I trust her to make this kitchen run smoothly.
“Hmm.”
“Stop fucking saying that,” I practically growl at him as he takes a sip of his cider.
“What?”
I narrow my eyes. “You know what. Every time Summer gets brought up, you do this Hmm shit, and you make faces, and it’s fucking annoying. There is nothing at all going on between us.”
Noah tucks his lips together, fighting a smile. “I never said there was, but it’s interesting that’s where your mind went.”
I flip him my middle finger.
“Shut up,” I say into my glass as I chug the rest of my drink. I set the empty cup down, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’m going back to work. You should too.”
“Yes, sir.”
He salutes me mockingly, and I’d be annoyed if I wasn’t so damn worried that he thinks something is happening with me and Summer.
There isn’t. There can’t be.
So why does it feel like there is?
My body is aching. I’ve been sitting at my desk for the last several hours trying to get caught up on everything I’ve been avoiding. Order forms are scattered across my desk, pens and pencils with too many bite marks are haphazardly placed, and I have three different coffee mugs surrounding me.
I’m fucking beat.
I check the time. Realizing I haven’t moved in at least two hours, I finally rise from my chair. My back pops as I stretch, my hip screaming only a little as I do. I try to shake out the stiffness of it as I make my way into the taproom.
The cidery is buzzing with people. Not nearly as many as there were earlier, but there are still plenty of customers spread around. A few are playing games, some are just shooting the shit, while others are attempting to wrangle their children. I wave to a few familiar patrons.
“Hey, Ezra,” says Micah, the guy who owns one of the gas stations in town. “How goes it?”
“Good. Great. Busy as usual. You?”
We make light polite conversation, and while I genuinely do like Micah, I’m distracted the whole time because of her.
I clocked where Summer was the second I walked into the taproom.
She’s behind the bar with Warner. Her head is tossed back in a laugh, and her brown hair, which is up in a ponytail tonight, swishes back and forth.
Warner stares down at her like she’s the only girl in the room.
Part of me gets it, because clearly my eyes are drawn to her, too, but the other part of me is just plain pissed off that they’re openly flirting.
What the hell is she doing? She kisses me, then flirts with him?
I mean, our kiss didn’t mean anything, so she’s free to do as she will, but . . . fuck. I’m still seeing green, and it has nothing to do with those pretty chocolate-colored eyes of hers.
I say goodbye to Micah, then make my way over there.
“Warner!” I snap once he’s in earshot.
His back goes straight, and he turns to me. “Ezra, hey, I was—”
“This isn’t Love Island. You’re not here to flirt. You’re here to work.”
His eyes widen, and I don’t blame him. Even I can hear the venom in my words.
“Oh, uh . . .” His eyes flash to Summer, who is staring daggers at me. “Sorry. I—I d-didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Summer for being inappropriate in the workplace.”
His cheeks redden. “S-Sorry, Summer. I—I—”
“Don’t worry about it, Warner. I didn’t mind at all.”
She might have addressed him, but she was talking to me.
She’s mad. Good. I’m glad because I’m mad too. And more than that, I want Warner gone. I can’t be near him right now, or I might fire him just because, and he doesn’t deserve that. Not really.
“Someone made a mess in the bathroom. It needs to be cleaned up.” I don’t know if this is true, but it’ll get him gone, and that’s exactly where I want him right now.
Nobody moves. Warner watches Summer, and Summer watches me.
“Well?” I say, finally dragging my stare away. “Aren’t you going to take care of it?”
“Oh. Shit. Right. Yes. I’m on it, boss,” Warner says. He gives Summer one last longing look before hurrying away toward the bathrooms.
Summer doesn’t budge. No, she just keeps glowering at me. I can feel her eyes boring into the side of my head.
I want to look at her. I really fucking do. But I fear that if I take one glance at her, I’m going to do something really stupid, like jump over the counter and show her the real definition of being inappropriate in the workplace.
So instead I turn, ready to head back to my office.
Then I hear it. It’s whispered, but it feels like it’s shouted through a bullhorn.
“You really are an ass, Ezra.”
She’s right. I am. And I want her to keep thinking that. Keep saying it. I want her to hate me because it makes it easier to do what I should have been doing all along when it comes to her.
I walk away.