Chapter Twenty-Two Summer #2
I sit up a little more. “Ken, uh, mentioned something earlier this week when I stopped by for fritters.”
Ezra cocks his head to the side. “You talked to him about it?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said he mentioned it.”
It’s not entirely a lie. Sure, he brought it up after I asked him about it, but still.
As bad as it sounds, I was excited when he said he didn’t have a buyer yet.
I’ve been letting myself do that lately—get excited by dreaming, and it’s because of how good it feels to be cooking again.
I want to keep doing it. Not just for myself, Ezra, my dad, or the cidery even.
I want to keep doing it for the younger me and for the dream she had.
And I think I want to keep doing it here in Port Harbor.
Ezra blows out a breath, running his hand through his hair, and I love how messily it lies on his head. “Fuck, Summer. I don’t know what to say next. I’m scared you’re going to shut down on me.”
I frown, but it’s a fair thing to say. That’s what I’ve done in the past.
But I’m done shutting down. I’m done running from what I want.
Working on the menu, seeing how people are receiving this thing that I built, and falling in love with cooking again .
. . it’s scary, and I’m absolutely petrified that I’m going to fall flat on my face again, but I have to try.
I don’t think I’ll forgive myself if I don’t.
“I’m not going to shut down.”
He doesn’t look up. He just continues picking at the blanket wrapped around him.
“I’m going to the bank tomorrow.”
He pauses, holding his breath. Waiting.
“I’m going to ask them about a loan,” I continue.
His eyes snap to mine, and I see the hope filling them.
“And I’m going to try to buy Sunnie’s for myself.”
He doesn’t move, not right away, and I think he’s waiting for me to say psych. But I don’t. I mean it. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I can’t help but feel like I have to at least try.
When I say nothing, Ezra launches himself at me.
I giggle as he peppers kisses over my face. My nose, my chin, my cheeks, my forehead. Every inch is covered as he slides on top of me, all his good parts lining up with mine.
“Fuck, Sunny. You don’t know how happy that makes me.”
“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I can feel it,” I say, driving my hips up into his very obvious erection.
“To be fair, I’m always that kind of happy when it comes to you.” He kisses the corner of my mouth, then pulls away, his eyes turning serious. “Are you sure, though? I don’t want to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do.”
“You’re not. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks now.
I can’t stop, actually. Having my own place has been my dream since I was a kid, and I can’t keep denying myself that dream just because I’m scared.
I have to try, or I know I’ll regret it if I don’t.
But don’t get your hopes up too high. I haven’t even been approved for anything, and I don’t know if I will be.
I have decent savings, but waterfront property is expensive. Who knows if I can even afford it?”
I tell myself it wouldn’t be a big deal, but that’s a lie. This location is perfect for everything I’m already dreaming up.
Ezra swallows. “I’ll help you.”
“What?” I laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. I’m being serious. I’ll help you.”
“Ezra . . .” I shake my head. “You can’t. You . . .”
“Believe in you, Sunny. I believe in you, and I know you can do this. In fact, I have so much fucking faith in you that I want to be your first investor.”
Another disbelieving laugh tumbles free. “Come on, Ezra. You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“Isn’t our situation complicated enough?”
It’s the first time we’ve brought it up in a long time, probably too long, but it doesn’t mean it’s not something I haven’t thought about. Especially not with how my heart is starting to war with my head.
“I—” Ezra starts, and he snaps his mouth closed because he doesn’t have a good answer for that, and he knows it. He exhales slowly. “Can’t you just let me help you?”
“No.”
His green eyes narrow. “Stubborn brat.”
“You like it.”
“I do,” he says, nuzzling his nose against mine. “I really fucking do.”
Our lips meet in a searing kiss, but that’s all we do, despite his noticeable excitement, and there’s something so simple in that.
Could we always be like this? Could we make out like we’re eighteen again and never get tired of it? Could we have something like this for real?
I . . . I think I want it. Maybe more than I realized, but I do.
I want Ezra to come home to me at night, make love to me in the kitchen, then snuggle me in bed at two in the morning.
I want laughing until we cry over nothing at all, inside jokes, late-night car rides, and kissing just because we can. I want it all, and I want it with him.
At some point our kiss slows to the point that we’re just resting there with our lips against each other, not really moving.
Eventually Ezra rolls off me, and I snuggle against him like I’ve done so many nights before. His arm goes around me, his fingers grazing over my back in long strokes.
“Summer?”
“Yes, Ezra?”
“I meant it. If the bank says no and you need help, I want to be the person who gives it to you, okay?” His voice is soft, pleading even, and dammit if I don’t want to give in.
But I can’t. Not when I still don’t know just what this is we’re doing.
So I settle for “We’ll see. Now go to sleep. We have an early day tomorrow.”
He hums, accepting my answer for now, and pulls me closer, his fingers still stroking over me.
That familiar warmth that always fills me when we lie like this spreads as I listen to his breathing even out, and sleep begs to take hold.
I’m just about to the point of giving in when I hear the faintest sound.
“Ezra?”
“Hmm?” he says sleepily.
“Do you hear that?”
“What?” He shuffles around, jostling me. “Hear what?”
“I don’t know. It sounds like a buzzing.”
“It’s your phone,” he says, squinting over at the device sitting on the dresser.
What? Who could be calling at this hour?
I push the blanket back, and a chill racks through me at the sudden cold. I pad over to the dresser just as my phone goes black again.
Right away, it brightens once more as it shakes against the wood.
Port Harbor Hospital
My heart sounds like the drum line at a college football game.
Bumbumbumbumbumbumbum.
“Who is it?” I faintly hear Ezra ask, but I don’t answer him. I can’t.
Shaky fingers wrap around the phone, and I slide my thumb across the bar at the bottom, pressing the device to my ear.
“H-hell . . . o?” The word is so unsteady, I’m surprised I even got it out.
“Is this Summer Turner?”
“Y-yes?”
“Hi, Summer. This is Crystal Andrews with Port Harbor Hospital. Your father is being admitted to the ICU for a heart attack. I—”
I don’t hear the rest of it.
Everything goes black.