Chapter Sixteen Summer
Chapter Sixteen
Summer
“How’s it going with Ezra?”
I pause mid–pancake flip at my dad’s question. “What?”
We’ve come to an unspoken agreement about my late nights and sleepovers, and as far as I know, he doesn’t have a clue Ezra is responsible for keeping me out way past appropriate, but does he know what I’ve been up to anyway?
I’ve gotten good at making sure I don’t look a complete wreck when I sneak inside in the mornings, but has he picked up on it anyway?
“At the cidery, kiddo. Keep up.”
Oh. I breathe a sigh of relief as he pours himself his second and final cup of coffee for the day.
“How’s it going out there?” he continues. “Is he treating you okay?”
I pray my father can’t see the blush that steals up my cheeks at the question.
Is Ezra treating me okay? Considering he’s given me an orgasm every day for nearly two weeks now, I’d say he’s treating me far more than just okay.
But I can’t tell my father any of that.
Instead, I say, “Uh, yeah. It’s going well. And Ezra is . . . nice.”
“Really?” he says incredulously. “I mean, he’s a good kid and all, but he’s kind of a dick.”
“Dad!” I admonish, finally letting the pancake drop into the skillet. It’s a rare day when Dad’s going into work late, thanks to some election stuff, so I was able to make him breakfast this morning.
“What?” He shrugs. “It’s true. He wasn’t like that back when he was playing hockey.
I don’t think he ever stopped smiling then, and I’d know, because we all followed his whole career.
He was going places. We’re talking on-the-path-to-winning-multiple-Cups kind of places.
That damn hip injury really screwed it all up.
Think it changed him in other ways too.” He takes a sip from the Garfield mug in his hand.
“Don’t get me wrong—I think he’s a good man, but he sure isn’t trying to win any kind of Mr. Congeniality award, that’s for sure. ”
He’s not entirely wrong. Ezra can undoubtedly be an ass, but there are also so many other sides to him that he doesn’t let people see.
Like how he eats sugary cereal in bed or how he texts his uncle damn near every day, just to check in on him.
Or how he’s always working so hard on the cidery, not just to make a bigger profit, but to make it better for the customers.
That’s why he’s remodeling the kitchen. It’s a big headache for him, but he knows it’ll make his patrons happy.
Ezra is an ass, but he’s selfless too.
“He’s not always a dick,” I defend him, even though I don’t have to. “And he hasn’t been one to me for weeks.”
My dad straightens up at that, his eyes darkening. “He was mean to you? What’d he do? Do I need to kick his ass? Arrest him?”
I point the spatula at him. “Simmer down, Sheriff. He was just . . . I don’t know. There’s another guy who works there—”
“Warner?” Dad asks. “That kid hits on everyone, I swear. Heard he’s dating the Hendersons’ son now.”
“He is, but this was before that. He was hitting on me, and Ezra saw it. He didn’t care for it, so he stepped in.
He was such a jerk in the moment, but in retrospect, it was actually kind of nice.
” I smile, thinking of how Ezra called him fucking Warner the other night and how jealous he sounded.
I’ve never found that an attractive trait, but there was something so hot about the fire in his eyes that I couldn’t deny being into it.
“Hmm,” my father says in response, and I dare a glance over at him.
I don’t at all like the way he’s looking at me. It’s like I’m a case and he’s trying to work out all the missing puzzle pieces to it.
Shit, did I slip up and say something I shouldn’t have? Did I defend my boss too much?
“What?” I ask, knowing I should turn back to the pancake that’s on the verge of being overdone, but I can’t. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” He takes another sip of his coffee, hiding behind his mug. “I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“Sure you aren’t,” I say, narrowing my eyes, but I don’t push the subject.
My dad is a damn good cop, and the last thing I need to do is incriminate myself in front of him.
He’ll put two and two together far faster than I’d like.
I can’t help but think he’d be disappointed if he knew what I was doing with Ezra.
Not that I think my father would really care as long as I’m happy, but there is a whole power dynamic at play, even if we don’t want to acknowledge it.
I finally flip the pancake onto the plate, and just as I suspected, it’s overcooked.
“Shit,” I mutter. “I’ll make you a new one.”
“Nah. Don’t worry about it. I actually need to run anyway. Got a few things I need to take care of before heading into the station.”
“Oh.” I deflate. Other than our movie night several days ago, I feel like I haven’t seen my dad in weeks. I was looking forward to breakfast together. Plus, I was enjoying cooking, even if it was just pancakes and turkey sausage. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Rain check for Saturday?”
I nod. “Sure. That sounds good.”
He leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Thanks, kiddo. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah, later, Dad. Be careful.”
“Always am.”
He grabs his holster off the table, then his hat.
Just before he steps out of the kitchen, he pauses, then looks back over his shoulder. “Maybe take that into the cidery. See if Ezra wants breakfast.”
Then he disappears, leaving me staring after him.
It confirms everything I need to know.
“Come on. We’re closing early.”
I snap my head up from the menu I’m still working on. I should have been done a week ago. I could blame it all on Ezra—he’s the one who keeps distracting me, after all—but it’s not entirely his fault.
It’s me who keeps changing my mind. I know how important this is for him and the cidery, how much they’re talking about the kitchen remodel on social media and promising this new, explosive menu, and I just want to live up to that. I’m terrified I won’t.
Truthfully, I feel out of practice with cooking.
Sure, I’ve been making things here and there for my father and myself, but nothing compared to the scale of what I’m used to doing.
I haven’t gotten the chance to really be in a kitchen since I made the mac and cheese for Ezra, and considering the state of it back then, I’m not sure that even counts.
“What? Why?” I ask.
Ezra gestures toward the completely empty cidery. “Because everyone in this town, including my business partner, is at the charity event in Pine Square. There’s no reason for us to be burning up the electricity by keeping this place open.”
He has a point. I think we’ve had two customers all day, when typically, on a Saturday, we’d be packed.
Even my dad had to bail on our breakfast this morning to get to the event early—one he seemed relieved I wouldn’t be attending, mostly because nobody wants a repeat of me in handcuffs.
He was even pulling deputies from the next town over to help with crowd control.
“Don’t you technically have to keep it on anyway to continue making the cider?”
“Shh. No logic. Not today. Just come on.”
He holds his hand out to me, and I can’t help myself—I drop my pencil and take it.
He leads me out from behind the bar, and then with his hand on the small of my back, we go toward the door.
“Aren’t we going to close everything?”
“We can come back here later. We’ll just lock up for now.”
I don’t even argue with him. His excitement is far too palpable for me to do so. It’s not a side I see from him often, and I like it far too much.
We climb into his car, and I love how it rumbles to life under us. We’re in his BMW—the same one we sped toward town in when he drove me home the night the cruiser broke down—and I giggle as he peels out of the parking lot, his tires chirping against the asphalt.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“The iceplex.”
I’ve heard a lot about the community center he and Noah have put together, but I haven’t yet made it out there. I was never into hockey like my father was back in the day, so I’m eager to see Ezra in his natural environment.
“I need to grab a few things from my office there. Figured we could take a break and maybe go for a skate. If you’re up for it, of course.”
“I’ve never ice-skated before.” The stunned look on his face makes me laugh. “You look like I just told you I like pineapple on pizza.”
“Another fucking travesty,” he comments, flipping his turn signal on and speeding past a car that’s already doing at least five over the speed limit.
I’d chide him for it, but honestly, I kind of love watching him drive. There’s something so hot about the way he shifts gears. His long, strong legs pushing the clutch in makes me feel things I really shouldn’t be feeling.
Thanks to his inability to obey the law, we’re pulling into the Stick Taps Community Iceplex in no time.
He surprises me by reversing into a spot in the very back of the lot.
“What?” he asks when he catches me looking at him funny. “I don’t want anyone to scratch my baby.”
I roll my eyes and stay seated as he climbs out of the car and crosses my way.
I let him help me out, trying my best to ignore the tingles I feel when he places his hand on the small of my back as we make our way through the lot.
I try not to be disappointed when he drops his hand as we walk inside. Then he surprises me by taking my hand.
I glance down at where our fingers are linked together and back up at him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s too busy leading us through the building like he owns the place, and I guess he does.
Several people say hi to him, but not a single one seems bothered by us being together, and it’s only when we reach the rink that I realize it’s because nobody here knows who I am. They don’t know that I’m his employee too.
All my worries slip away when I take in the ice.
“Wow,” I say, looking around, feeling so small as I look up at the seats that feel like they go on forever from this angle. “This is incredible, Ezra.”