“Bullshit.”
“Stop saying bullshit!” I launch the towel at him before I can think twice about it, and I’m surprised when he catches it out of midair.
I don’t know why. The guy used to be a professional hockey player. I’m sure his hand-eye coordination skills are incredible.
He sets the towel down next to him, not once taking his eyes off me. “Then stop being bullshit.”
I huff. “You can’tbebullshit.”
“Can too, and that’s exactly what you are right now. You’re acting like being in the kitchen the other night wasn’t the happiest you’ve been since you started working here.”
“That’s not true.” It is true, though. It’s completely true, and I wasn’t expecting him to notice that.
What else does he notice?
He scoffs. “Keep telling yourself that, if that’s what you need to do, but I know what I saw. I know what the look on your face said. You looked like I did when I was out on the ice. It was your happy place. It was your escape. It was your fucking refuge, and you’re casting it aside like it means nothing.”
I want to argue with him more. All the words are sitting on the tip of my tongue, but they never tumble free. How could they when he’s right about everything? How can I stand here and pretend I don’t want to be back in a kitchen more than anything else in this world?
And how can I tell him that’s the exact reason I can’t say yes?
“Look,” he says, “we’re doing this. We’re buying new equipment and upgrading the appliances. And we’re going to change the menu. We’re going to serve actual food. Not just frozen shit we slap together now. It’s all going to be new. We want you, Summer. We want you to help us with this project. We’re not asking you to stay in Port Harbor forever, but we want you for the interim. We need someone who can get the place running like it needs to, and after that little show the other night—that fucking mac and cheese I’mstillthinking about—I want that person to be you.”
He’s still thinking of my food? God, I hate how that makes me vibrate from head to toe. I’ve been complimented on my plates before—by people with more refined palates too—but it still feels so damn good to hear, especially after taking this time away.
Do I ... do I want to run a kitchen again?CanI?ShouldI? I failed so spectacularly last time. Fell right on my face when I was given such a grand opportunity. Am I ready to try again so soon?
I can’t deny that it hasn’t crossed my mind since being back here. The other night, when Ezra asked me why I wasn’t working at a restaurant in Port Harbor, I told him it was because there weren’t any good ones here. I stand by that. But that doesn’t mean therecouldn’tbe good ones here.
I could ... I could make one. I could have my own place. I could make all my dreams come true. Be in charge of the menu and have a say over who gets hired and fired. Be close to home and to my father again. I could make it mine in a way Lore never was.
I could, but I won’t. I can’t gamble on myself like that, not when I know what the results will be.
And I can’t let Ezra do it either. If I were to do this again, I’d need to be damn sure I could, and right now ... right now, I’m just not sure if that’s where I’m at.
“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Ezra sighs, shaking his head and closing his eyes momentarily, and I fucking hate it. I cannot stand how disappointed he seems right now.
When he looks at me again, I want to run and hide from what I see.
It’s not just disappointment. It’s pity.
I fucking hate pity.
“No,” he says, rising from the stool.
“No?”
“Yeah, no. You’re not the only one who gets to say that. Now it’s my turn, and I’m telling youno. I’m not taking that as your answer. I’ll ask you again later, then again and again until I wear you down.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s called coercion.”
“I prefer peer pressure.”
“Ezra ...” I warn with gritted teeth, but he doesn’t seem to care.
He grabs the towel I threw at him earlier, then tosses it back my way. I catch it with much less finesse than he did.
