He laughs, then rises from the chair and makes his way to the door.
With his hand on the knob, he turns. I stare up at him, waiting for whatever it is that he’s going to say.
I have a feeling I’m not going to like it one bit, so I brace myself as best I can.
“Summer’s really nice, isn’t she?”
Fuck. Here we go.
“She’s . . . fine.”
I hate how I notice that Noah’s lips slowly pull into a grin and how his eyes get that obnoxiousknowinglook in them.
I hate that he’s looking at me at all.
“Get the fuck out of here,” I grumble.
He laughs, shaking his head. “Oh boy. This is going to be fun.”
“What’s going to be fun? What are you talking about?”
He just laughs harder as he pulls open the door, and all it does is piss me off.
“Noah!” I call to him as he exits my office. “What’s going to be fun?!”
But he doesn’t answer. His shoulders shake as he disappears down the hall and back into the taproom, leaving me sitting at my desk and wondering just what the hell it is that I might have gotten myself into.
And why do I have a bad feeling about it?
Chapter Eight
Summer
“Do you have a minute?”
The glass I’m holding slips right from my fingers, and I barely catch it in time before it smacks against the counter.
Ezra stands in the hallway entrance. He’s wearing a crisp navy dress shirt that makes his green eyes pop even from here and gray slacks thatreallyshouldn’t look so damn good but do. With his sleeves rolled up and showing off his taut forearms, his watch is also on display. I’ve never given much thought to a man wearing a timepiece before, but now I can’t seem to take my eyes off it.
After he walked away the other night—after he almost kissed me—I held on to it for I’m not even sure how long. I just turned it over and over in my hands, memorizing every inch of it before finally convincing myself to put it on his desk.
I still can’t believe that happened. I can’t believe Ezra almost kissed me, and I can’t believe I almost let him do it.
And I really can’t believe I still want him to.
“Uh, sure,” I manage to say, my throat now suddenly dry.
I set the glass I’m holding under the nearest cider tap, pour, then chug it back.
“What?” I ask when Ezra’s eyes sharpen. “We’re closed.”
“Where’s Warner?” he asks, walking into the taproom. His limp is noticeably more pronounced today. I force myself not to react, even though I want to ask him about it.
“I think he’s in the basement or cleaning the bathrooms.” I know he told me, but I can’t remember. I was just glad to get a break from his constant flirting. He’s nice and I’m sure it’s harmless, but I’m not interested in him.
I don’t say any of that to Ezra, though.
“So,” I say as he climbs onto a stool, and I lean against the counter in front of him, setting the glass that I now have to clean again to the side. “What’s up?”
