Summer
Ezra Rawlings is ridiculously good looking, but that’s all he is. Outside of that, he’s a downright ass.
So I ignore him. I pretend he’s not somewhere in the cidery. I act like he doesn’t even exist as I work to rearrange the stockroom into something that actually makes sense.
I have no idea who they had do this before, but they did an awful job at it. I’m surprised, considering how nice the rest of the place is.
When I first pulled up to Stick Taps, I was annoyed because it was raining. Then I was even more irritated when Ezra took forever to open the door for me. And again when he made me fill out that pointless application.
But after I got over all that and he was giving me a tour, I couldn’t believe how beautiful the place is. It’s much bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside. An open-concept layout welcomes you when you walk through the doors with an incredible view of the Cascades in the background, thanks to the windows that take up the back side. A bar with a stunning wooden top to the right and more seating and tables to the left. Everything is clean and modern, and the vast amounts of hockey memorabilia could keep anyone busy for a few hours.
I can’t believe I haven’t made my way here before now. Sure, I’ve been busy taking care of my dad, but this is the exact kind of place where I could see myself grabbing a drink or two. Maybe I would have come sooner if I felt like I had people to hang out with. I’ve been so wrapped up in taking care of my dad that I didn’t realize how lonely I’ve been feeling since coming back.
My stomach rumbling pulls me from my dreary thoughts, and I realize quickly it’s because all I’ve had today is two cups of coffee.
Dropping what I’m working on, I go in search of food.
I pause as I approach the kitchen, and the urge to push open the swinging door is automatic. It’s not that I haven’t cooked since I quit the restaurant. I make my father dinner every night. I just haven’t been in arealkitchen since then. One with people buzzing around, yelling requests, or that sweet melodic sound of vegetables being chopped. Hell, I haven’t picked up a good set of knives or donned my chef’s whites in over a month. Considering cooking was once my life, it’s strange. It’s weird not hearing people yell “Yes, Chef,” “Behind,” or “Corner” every few moments.
I miss it more than I thought I would, especially since I was so damn miserable before I left Chicago.
Shaking myself from the thoughts of what once was, I bypass the door with the little window on it and head for the fancy break room that looked like it could be stocked with snacks.
My eyes catch the clock on the microwave as I walk in, and I see that it’s nearly noon. Damn, I had no idea so much time had passed—no wonder I’m hungry.
I yank open cabinets until I find something worthwhile, and I nearly cry when I see a box of cheese crackers.
“Oh my god, yes,” I say, practically tearing open the package.
I pour the contents straight into my mouth, chewing loudly, and my stomach finally begins to settle.
“Uh, can I help you?”
I snap my head up to find a guy—a very attractive guy, might I add—staring at me wide-eyed from the doorway.
“What?” I ask around a mouthful of food, trying not to stare too hard at his dark-blond hair or how tan he is for someone who lives in the Pacific Northwest.
“I said, ‘Can I help you?’ Do you, um, work here?” He pokes his head back out the door and looks down the hall like he’s searching for something. What, I don’t know.
“Oh, sorry.” I run my hand across the back of my mouth. “Yes, I do. Work here, I mean.”
He tips his head to the side like he’s studying me, like he doesn’t believe me. “Since when?”
“Today is my first day. I’m Summer.”
I give him a small wave and instantly curse myself for doing so. It’s awkward. This whole situation is. And I really just want to eat these crackers in peace so I can go back to my organizing.
His face relaxes, and a big grin stretches across his lips. “Cool. Hi, Summer. I’m Warner.”
“Hi,” I respond weakly.
Warner laughs, then finally comes into the break room with me. “So,” he says as he pulls open the stainless-steel fridge. “How are my crackers? Hitting the spot?”
I blink a few times, his words settling in, and when they do, I realize my mistake. “Oh my god.”
Neither of us misses the crumbs that fly out of my mouth.
I wipe at my messy face and rush to close the cracker box.
