I stroll casually toward her, still not bothering to pick up my pace, and when I finally unlock and pull open the door, she rushes inside with a hard stare.
“Seriously? I was knocking for five minutes.”
That’s a lie. It wasn’t even two.
“And what’s with that chicken out there? It was looking at me like it was about to attack me.”
I look beyond her to see that—once again—Tootsie has escaped. I’ll deal with her later. Right now I’m focused on Summer and the fact that she was late. Was it really that difficult to be on time when I’m doing her and her father a favor by letting her work here? I know the cidery isn’t hard to find, which means she’s clearly not taking this seriously.
“That’s Tootsie. She’s harmless.”
“Okay,” she says, stretching the word like she doesn’t believe me as she wipes her feet on the floor mat. “I did not miss this rain when I was in Chicago.”
Chicago? What the hell was she doing all the way out there?
Wait. No. I don’t care about the why. She’s my employee. Who cares about her personal life?
Summer shakes off the last bit of rain, running her hands through her bangs like she’s trying to contain them, then stares up at me with brown eyes that nearly match the color of her hair. She shimmies off her dark-green rain jacket, revealing a pair of black shorts that are entirely too fucking short and a white T-shirt that hugs her far too well. Fuck, I’ve never been so glad for someone bundling up in a raincoat before. There’s no way her shirt wouldn’t be see-through if she hadn’t been wearing one.
I look away. Not because I don’t like what I see—I do—but I have no business looking at her at all.
I know that familiar stir in my pants is just because I haven’t been with someone in a long, long time, but it still irritates me.
“You’re late,” I tell her to distract myself.
“That’s because I sat in my driveway for fifteen minutes debating whether or not I even wanted to show up today.” She shrugs. “But I’m here now, so let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Her honesty shocks me, but I guess it shouldn’t, considering she did call me an ass the first time she met me.
I smirk at the memory of how feisty she was sitting in that interrogation room.
She’s scrappy, that much is clear, and I like that she doesn’t take shit from anyone, least of all me.
“Follow me,” I say, turning and heading back toward the break room to finish my coffee before we start the day.
Summer’s shoes—black canvas ones—smack against the floor as she follows behind me. She sets her bag on an empty chair, sliding her dripping coat over the back of it.
I make a mental note to grab a mop later to clean the mess, then sidle up to the coffeepot, grab a second mug from the cabinet above, and pour her a cup.
“Thanks,” she murmurs when I hand it to her. She curls her fingers around it, soaking up its warmth as she blows on the hot liquid.
I’m surprised when she takes a sip without adding anything to it. Most girls I know don’t take their coffee black. They prefer something with a bit of cream or sugar.
Guess I shouldn’t be too shocked, given her less-than-sweet disposition.
“This place looks nice,” she remarks, taking in the upscale break room.
Even though we’re just a cidery, Noah and I tried to provide the same sort of luxury we used to enjoy in our player lounges at the arenas. There’s something about feeling at home while you’re at work that makes you want to show up and do your job well.
“I like the floors.”
“I picked them,” I tell her.
She arches a brow at that. “Really?”
“What? A man can’t know a little something about decor? That’s not very feminist of you.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure you get to lecture women on what’s feminist and what isn’t.”
