I’m not playing fair, but I can’t find it in me to care.
I take all calls about the kitchen remodel in the taproom within earshot of her. I purposefully ask absurd questions, just to see her reaction.
Yesterday she had to walk out of the room twice, then she went on a five-minute rant about the different kinds of gas stoves, which is the best to buy, and why.
I think I smiled the whole way through it, then asked her to be our chef again.
She threw a towel at me and stomped away.
If she were anyone else, I’d have fired her on the spot, but I can’t seem to make myself do it when it comes to her, because, for the first time in a really long damn time, I’m actually having fun.
Maybe Odette was right before, because this feels nothing like all the other “fun” I was claiming to have.
“Are you serious?”
I barely hold my laugh in as I look up from the stack of invoices I’m shuffling through. “What can I help you with, Ms. Turner?”
Her glower would scare lesser men, but not me.
“An Easy-Bake Oven?” she practically yells as she marches into the small space.
She shuts the door behind her, and while part of me is grateful for it since we have a room full of customers who don’t need to witness this, I wish she had left it open. Maybe I’d trust myself to behave a little more if that were the case.
I’ve almost kissed her twice now, and I’m not so sure I’ll be able to hold back if there’s a third time.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“You know damn well what the problem is. You’re doing this to get my attention, Ezra.”
Summer stands over me, her hands on her hips. She’s referring to me ordering an Easy-Bake Oven and placing it in the kitchen with a note that saysOur New Oven. It was ridiculous, but it worked.
“I know you’re tormenting me so that I’ll give you what you want,” she continues. “Despite knowing that, I hate myself because ... because ...”
“Because it’s working?”
“Yes!” She tosses her hands into the air. “Yes, it’s fucking working, and I don’t want it to work. Or maybe I do. I don’t know.”
She’s pacing back and forth in front of my desk now, and I watch her as she goes from left to right.
Left. Right.
Left. Right.
Italmostmakes me feel bad for messing with her.
Then I remember that delicious mac and cheese she made me, and the remorse goes right out the window. I don’t feel bad at all. This is clearly her calling, and it’s also obvious she misses it. The kitchen here might not be as extravagant as she’s used to in Chicago, but at least it’s better than slinging drinks. Not that there’s anything wrong with tending bar, but there is a problem with it when you’re as talented as Summer is.
There’s no reason to waste that kind of magic, especially when you have an opportunity like this lying at your feet.
“Does that mean you’re accepting my offer?”
“You’re not really leaving me a choice, are you?”
I rise from my chair, moving around the desk until I’m seated on the edge. The position causes my hip to pinch with pain, but I do it anyway, just to be closer to her. It’s clear this is stressing her out, and that’s the last thing I wanted. “Of course I am, Summer. This choice was always yours.”
“It doesn’t feel that way,” she mutters, turning once more to go back the other way.
“I’m sorry. I was just messing with you.”
