He flips on a light, then takes off his shoes. I do the same and trail behind him deeper into the house, taking it in as we go.
The first thing I notice is how clean it is. And I don’t just mean he’s good at picking up behind himself. I meanclean. There’s nothing out of place anywhere, which is so funny, because I’ve been in his office before, and his desk is usually a complete wreck.
No photos line the walls, very few knickknacks sit on the bookshelves that take up one side of the living room, and his couch looks like nobody has ever sat on it.
We step into this kitchen—which is equally untouched—and I want to cry at the beautiful stove he has.
“Do you approve?” he asks, setting the pizza on the counter.
“Approve? Are you kidding me? I couldkillfor a stove like this. It’s gorgeous.”
He laughs lightly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone call a stovegorgeousbefore.”
“Then you’re not hanging out with the right people.”
“Clearly,” he deadpans. He flicks his chin toward the fridge—again, gorgeous—and says, “Grab us some drinks? I’ll get plates.”
I pull open the stainless-steel door and laugh.
“What?”
“Um, you realize your fridge is empty, right?”
“No, it’s not. There’s ranch dressing in there. Cider too.”
“And not much else. Do you not cook at all?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.
He shrugs as he reaches into the cabinet. “Sometimes, but it’s nothing like what you do.”
I’m not proud of it, but I stick my head farther into the fridge at his compliment. I have to or else he’ll see just how red my cheeks are.
When I feel like I don’t look strawberry red, I grab us two ciders and take them to the counter.
Ezra plates the pizza, and we settle onto the stools tucked beneath the island.
I can’t help but groan at the first bite of pizza. “Holy shit. This is so good.”
“Right?” He eats half the slice in one bite, chews, then swallows. “It’s easily my favorite part of living here.”
“Where did you move here from?”
“Technically, Minnesota,” he says, popping open his cider. It’s Empty Net, my favorite. “I went back home after ...”
His words trail off, and I instantly know what he means—the hockey accident that took him out of the game for good.
He clears his throat. “Before that, I was in Tennessee for three years.”
“Did you like it?”
“It wasn’t bad, but it was not a place I could see myself settling down. Too crowded for me. I’m sure this might come as a shock, but I’m not much of a people person, so I didn’t love the going-out culture they had, you know? It felt like every night the guys wanted to hit up a bar or something, and I wasn’t down for that.”
“Yet now you own a bar.”
“It’s not abar. It’s a cidery. There’s a difference.”
He has me there. Sure, Stick Taps serves alcohol like a bar does, but it’s nowhere near the same vibe as Hank’s here in town.
“Besides, I might own a bar, but it’s not like I’m really that involved with the day-to-day of actual ... barring.”
