“Barring?” I laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how you use that word.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Whatever. I’m tired. Leave me alone.”
“You should sleep more.”
“Tell that to my hip.”
I stop myself before I can frown, instead shoveling more pizza into my mouth.
Ezra polishes off two more slices, and I finish another myself before declaring that I’m done.
“Thank you. For sharing your pizza, I mean,” I say as I hop off the stool, taking my plate to the sink.
“What are you doing?” Ezra asks, and I jump.
I had no idea he was so close. And by close I mean take-a-step-back-and-be-pressed-up-against-him kind of close.
“Uh, the dishes.”
“No,” he says, reaching over me and grabbing the plate from my hand.
“Ezra, stop. Just let me wash it.”
“Not a chance, Sunny. You’ve been on your feet all day. Go sit down.”
I want to argue, because that’s my natural reaction when it comes to him, but suddenly my feet are aching, and I’m realizing just how long of a day it really has been.
“Fine,” I mutter, then resume my spot at the counter, but not before snatching up the plans for the kitchen.
I sip on my cider as I look it over again. I was hoping it was just the bad lighting in the car, but my first impression was right—this isn’t going to work.
“Well?” Ezra asks, and I look up to find him still standing at the sink, his back now to the faucet, a towel in his hands as he dries them off.
His hair is dry now, lying messily on his head like he’s been running his hand through it, and there’s a wet spot on his shirt, causing it to cling to him.
I hate how good he looks like this. So relaxed. So unbothered. He’s not even scowling like he usually is. He looks ... at ease, and it’s doing wonders for him.
“See something you like, Sunny?”
I snap my gaze from that damn wet spot to his eyes.
“Excuse me?”
He nods toward the plans sitting in front of me. “The layout. Do you see something you like?”
“Oh.” I give myself a mental shake, frustrated that I let him get inside my head again. “Uh, no. Actually. This sucks.”
Just like that, his scowl is back. “Jeez, tell me how you really feel.”
“I feel like you could do better.”
“Ouch.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is it just you who gets to be the asshole?”
His eyes narrow, but only for a moment before he exhales heavily and nods. “That’s fair.” He carefully slips the towel back around the handle on the stove, then pushes off the counter and stalks closer until he’s standing right next to me. “Listen, Summer, I—”
I hold my hand up. “Stop. I don’t want to hear your excuse.”
