Chapter Eighteen Summer #2
“A few, but most of them are for chain places, and that’s not my style. I think if I’m going to sell Sunnie’s, it should be to someone who has the same love of cooking as she did. Not someone looking to make a quick buck and bring something nonlocal here.”
So many ideas run through my head all at once.
Dark lighting, a modern refresh on the exterior, new tables and chairs, and a fresh coat of paint inside. It would be moody yet inviting. It would be a must-eat destination.
It would be mine. I could move back here, find an apartment in town or rent Mr. Looper’s place. I could be close to my father. I could do whatever I wanted.
My mind spins, and I’m feeling more alive than I have in days at the idea of finally having my own restaurant.
I want to scream out loud that I’ll buy it. That he should sell it to me because I would keep it local, and I would honor his wife’s memory.
But the words never come. Not just because I have zero financial backing, but because all those fears that I’ve been holding on to since walking out of Lore come crashing onto my shoulders. I feel dreadful all over again.
You can’t run a business, Summer. You could barely hold a kitchen together, let alone deal with all the other things that come with owning a restaurant. Hell, you’re still working on a menu for the cidery. How could you possibly do that for a full-scale restaurant?
I can’t. I’m not ready. I might never be.
I force a smile. “Well, I hope you find the right person.”
“Me too, kid. Me too.”
I wave goodbye to Ken, and the sign catches my eye on the way out. That pull to ask him about it more tugs at me, but I pay no heed to it. I can’t. I have other things I need to focus on right now.
Maybe I’ll get my own restaurant one day, but it won’t be today.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Ezra glares at me over his shoulder, then goes back to stretching out the dough far too thin.
Much to my chagrin, he wasn’t at the cidery today. Apparently he had to borrow Noah’s truck and go pick up a new pinball machine that they were having trouble getting the company to deliver.
Instead, it was just me and Warner, who was on his absolute best behavior all day.
Ezra texted me around the time I got off with one single word.
Tonight?
I couldn’t deny him, which is why I’m standing in his kitchen, watching him butcher the crescent rolls we’re having with the chicken pesto pasta we’re making.
“You’re pulling them too thin. They’re going to do—that.” I sigh as it rips in half. “Break.”
I want to shove him out of the way and take over because it’s just in my nature, but I refrain. I pick up another chunk of dough and hand it to him.
“Try again,” I instruct. “And stop overworking the dough.”
“Yes, Chef,” he teases, and I swear the words have never been hotter.
Our second cooking lesson is going much better than our first. In hindsight, I probably should have started with something a little easier, like I did tonight.
This time, when he spreads out the dough, it’s perfect, and I coach him on how to fold it so it looks pretty. While it doesn’t, it’s still edible, and that’s all that counts, right?
“Better?”
“I mean, it’s in one piece, so that’s always a plus.” I point to the noodles on the stovetop that should be just about done. “Check on those and drain them while I finish the rolls?”
He nods, then wipes his hands on his apron, and I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling. If he keeps doing that, we might have a repeat of last time when we smoked the kitchen out because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
I quickly finish the rolls, then move on to the chicken with Ezra.
We get everything plated, take off our aprons, and then sit down at the table that we set earlier.
There’s something about eating across from each other, a bottle of wine sitting between us, that feels so .
. . well, kind of romantic. Definitely different from eating cereal in his bed, that’s for sure.
“Oh shit. That’s actually good,” Ezra says through a mouthful of food.
I’d tell him he’s being gross, but he’s right—it is good. It’s almost like he knows what he’s doing.
“Any improvements you’d make?” I ask, twirling the pasta onto my fork, then stabbing a piece of chicken.
“The chicken is just a bit overcooked, but that’s my bad. I should have taken it off the burner when you told me to.” He points his utensil at me. “But that’s your fault.”
“How?”
“The apron, Sunny. You know what it does to me.” He winks at me over the top of his wineglass.
“Eat your food, Ezra.”
“Yes, Chef.”
I narrow my eyes at him, shifting in my seat, hoping he doesn’t notice it. If he does, he doesn’t say anything.
“Sorry that I wasn’t at the cidery for your first day back,” he says a few moments later. “Those damn delivery guys kept giving me the runaround with the machines. I won’t be ordering from them again.”
“That sucks. But you got it sorted, right?”
“Yep, she’s plugged in and looking good. Plays nicely too.” He takes another sip of his wine, then sets the glass down. “Saw something interesting on the way home tonight.”
“Oh?” I ask, shoveling another bite of food into my mouth. He’s right that the chicken is just a bit overdone, and I’m impressed he realizes that.
“Sunnie’s is for sale.”
I’ve been doing so well all day not thinking about it. Or at least trying really, really hard not to. But the second he says it, my heart does that same hammering thing it did earlier.
“I heard something about that.” My words are cool and calm.
“Could be a good place for a new restaurant. Great location, that’s for sure.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say noncommittally, taking a bite of the crescent roll, even though I’m suddenly feeling full. I just need something to do to distract me from the hopeful way Ezra is staring at me. It reminds me too much of the look my father gave me earlier.
He sets his fork down. “I’m saying you should buy it, Summer.”
I sigh, pushing my plate away. “No.”
He works his jaw back and forth. “Why not?”
“Because not all of us are former hotshot hockey players with money burning holes in our pockets, Ezra. I can’t afford it, for starters. And even if I could, I’m not doing it. I don’t want to.”
“Okay—I get the financial aspect of it, but I’m not buying that you don’t want to. I’ve seen the way you’re giving your all to the menu at the cidery, and I’m excited as hell to have you working there, but imagine doing that for a place that’s all your own. You deserve that.”
“You’ve never even seen me in a kitchen. Not really. How do you know I don’t suck?”
“Because I know you, Summer, and I believe in you.”
He believes in me? I hate that such a simple statement makes my stomach do flips, especially when this . . . whatever this is we’re doing . . . it’s not supposed to mean anything.
When it doesn’t mean anything because it can’t.
“Look,” I say, rising from my chair, my plate in hand as I take it over to the sink. “I appreciate your vote of confidence—I truly do—but my answer is still no.”
He sighs, following behind me. “Fine, but we aren’t done talking about this.”
“Are too.”
“Are not.”
I glare over at him and point to the mess we’ve made in the kitchen. “Stop being annoying and start cleaning.”
“Yes, Chef,” he says with a grin, grabbing a towel and slinging it over his shoulder.
We work together for the next twenty minutes to restore the kitchen to where it was before we started his lesson, and I spend the entire time thinking about Ezra’s words.
Because I know you, Summer, and I believe in you.
I wish I had the same faith he does, but I don’t.
Once upon a time, maybe, but losing something you’ve worked so hard for, like I did—folding under the pressure—it does something to you.
It shakes you up. I . . . I can’t trust myself anymore.
I’ve never admitted that before, but it’s true.
It’s why it’s taking me so long to refine this damn menu for the cidery.
It’s why I’m dragging my heels in deciding to stay in Port Harbor.
Because what if the choice I make is the wrong one?
What if I try something and I fail again? Can I bounce back from that?
I . . . I don’t know, and I’m not willing to find out.
“Hey, Sunny?” Ezra says a while later. We’re lying in his bed, his fingers playing with the ends of my brown locks as we watch something mindless on TV.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not trying to push you into something, you know that, right?”
I exhale slowly and nod. “I know that, Ezra.”
“I just . . . I wish you could see yourself in the kitchen like I see you. When you’re cooking, it’s like you’re in a different world, like nothing could touch you in there.
Nothing could get under your skin. You just .
. . fuck, you look happy, almost like you’re in love, and I know what that’s like.
I had it with hockey, and I lost it. I fucking lost my one true love, and I don’t want the same thing to happen to you just because you’re scared.
I get it—more than you know. So I’m not pushing you, I swear.
I’m just letting you know that if you do decide to follow your heart and take a risk, I’m in your corner. ”
Tears sting my eyes, and I blink them away. I’ve had people in my corner before—my dad has always been my number one fan and my mother, too—but I’ve never had someone like Ezra there for me before. Someone who doesn’t have to believe in me, but chooses to.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He kisses my forehead. “Anytime, Sunny.”
I get the feeling that he means it.
We stay like that the rest of the night. His hands don’t wander any lower than my back, and we don’t spend the evening fooling around. We just watch TV until we fall asleep, and it might be the most restful night of sleep I’ve had.
And it has everything to do with Ezra.