“Great. Be there at eight.”
I balk. “In the morning?”
“Yes . . .”
“Who the hell is hanging out at a cidery at eight in the morning?”
“I am.” He pushes to his feet, and I have to tip my head back, back, back, just to look up at him. “See you then, Sunny.”
Sunny? Why the hell would he call me that?
I certainly don’t feel sunny knowing that as of tomorrow, I’ll have to work with Ezra Rawlings.
And how I might like the idea of that a bit too much.
Chapter Three
Ezra
If hockey taught me anything, it’s that you can function on very little sleep if you put your mind to it.
It’s a good thing, too, considering I didn’t sleep for shit yet again last night. It’s become a trend for me these days, and it’s one I’d really wish would fade. But until then, I guess I’ll continue to show up on just four hours of shut-eye and get my shit done.
I push my key into the door of Stick Taps, working as fast as I can to get inside to avoid the rain. Once in, I flick on the lights and move through the empty cidery to the employee break room, where there’s a coffeepot calling my name. Not only do I need to warm up after dealing with the random summer downpour, but I am in desperate need of caffeine.
I tossed and turned all night. Some of it was because my hip was sore from the intense physical therapy session I had on Friday, and some because I stayed up way too late working on stuff for the cidery and the iceplex. But the rest? I couldn’t stop thinking about the shitstorm that I managed to get myself into with Sheriff Turner.
He’s blackmailing me. There’s no doubt about that.
The worst part is that I don’t entirely blame him for doing it. He’s let me off easy too many times to count, and I guess it’s only fair I finally have consequences for my actions.
I just wish he weren’t forcing me to hire his daughter. His veryattractivedaughter. I didn’t want to notice her shoulder-length brown hair, her bangs, or the dark freckle that sits just to the right of her nose. And I really didn’t want to notice her chocolaty eyes that have little flecks of gold in them, or her ruby-red lips, and how perfectly pouty they were as she called me on my shit.
“And you sound like an ass.”
I keep replaying Summer Turner’s words on a loop. They were honest, and it was refreshing. I can’t recall the last time someone called me out like that, other than Noah and Odette.
All my employees act like I’m some big bad wolf, and while I prefer that, I kind of like the challenge.
I think that’s what having Summer work at Stick Taps will be, though—a challenge, and I’m not sure I have the time for that. I have too much going on as it is.
I make a fresh pot of coffee, noting the time on the clock hanging over the door, and frown.
8:05.
Summer is late.
If she were anyone else, I’d fire her on the spot, but I have a feeling Sheriff Turner wouldn’t take too kindly to that.
It’s fifteen after when I hear banging on the front door.
Instead of rushing out to rescue Summer from the rain that’s only picked up since I’ve been inside, I take my time.
She made me wait. It’s only fair I return the favor.
When I finally make my way out of the central area of the cidery, she’s glaring at me through the large windows likeI’mthe one who has inconvenienced her.
“Hello?!” she shouts, gesturing to the door. “Let me in!”
