Instead, I tip my chin higher, meeting his heated glare. “What.”
I don’t even form it as a question.
“This isn’t social hour. You’re here to work.”
“Do I not get breaks at work? Because if I don’t, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal or something.”
His jaw tightens as he pushes off the door. Even from across the room, he looks impossibly tall. “Are you ever not a brat?”
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
He looks like he wants to say something about that. Instead, he settles on, “You get breaks. We’re not tyrants.”
“Well, then I’m taking a break. I’m almost done with the stockroom.”
“Seriously?”
“What? Didn’t think I’m capable of organizing a few shelves?”
“I—” He snaps his mouth closed, then exhales heavily through his nose. “No. I was just hoping that would take you a little longer.”
Interesting.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have the time to babysit you today. I have other shit to do.”
“So much to do that you’re in here bothering me on my break.”
I’m pushing it. I know I am. I see it in the way the vein on his head is getting more prominent the longer we stand here in this little face-off.
He takes a step into the room, then another, and another. It’s amazing how much space his long legs eat up, because I swear, he cut the room in half with just three steps.
“You’re awfully bold for someone who is reaping the benefits of a favor.”
“Favor?” I ask.
I push off the counter with a laugh, setting the box of crackers down. I approach until I’m just close enough to be suddenly hit with the scent of soap and laundry detergent. If this were any other moment, I might find it nice. But right now, I’m pissed.
My breaths are coming in sharp, and my lungs are burning like I’ve just run a marathon.
“You call this afavor? News flash: I didn’t ask to work here,Mr. Rawlings. I’m being forced to, just like you’re being forced to hire me. I assure you, neither of us is doing the other afavor.”
His eyes narrow even farther, and he points a finger at me. I’m almost 100 percent certain he’s about to tell me to get out. That he’s about to fire me and risk losing his license.
But he doesn’t.
He drops his arm finally, running a hand through his midnight hair before he says, “Go back to work, Summer.”
Then he spins on his heel, walks out of the break room, and leaves me standing there with cracker crumbs on my fingers and a dry mouth.
I was right before—Ezra is an ass.
Yet despite all that, I haven’t felt so alive in months.
Chapter Five
Ezra
