Page 39 of Grumpily Yours
“I’m running to the grocery store. Need anything specific?”
“Real bacon would be nice.”
“Dad . . .” I warn him.
He sighs, then shakes his head. “Nah, nothing specific. Just whatever you think is best, Doc.”
I roll my eyes, then press a kiss to his cheek with a loud smack. “See you tonight, Sheriff.”
He grunts in response, and I laugh, grabbing my purse from the hook near the door and slipping it over my head.
I turn right out of our driveway, taking in the gorgeous views as I stroll along Harborview Boulevard, the waterfront to my left, and the Cascades silhouetted in the background.
This has always been my favorite part of living here—cool early mornings, the smell of salt in the air, and the postcard-esque backdrop. It’s heaven on earth, and sometimes I wonder why I ever moved away.
Oh, right. Culinary school.
I don’t remember exactly when I fell in love with cooking. Maybe it was all those hours after school I spent with my mom, mixing up cookies and bread and helping with dinner. Or maybe it was before then, when I would just watch her. Either way, it’s always been part ofme, so when it came time to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, it made sense. Going away to school made me love it even more.
Maybe that’s why I’m so scared of saying yes to Ezra. I love it so much, I’m afraid of failing again, because that’ll make me hate it, and I never want to do that.
But maybe my dad is right. Maybe this is my chance for a do-over. Maybe this is my shot to make it right. To do it better.
Maybe ... maybe I should seize it.
Chapter Nine
Ezra
I haven’t seen Summer in five days now, with me running back and forth between the iceplex and trying to sort out our new arcade going in.
We’re up to ten different games, and based on the social media response to the announcement, that’s not going to be enough. We need more, and selfishly, I want more. I’ve been test-driving the pinball machines every night after work for far too many hours. I was right in thinking it would be a stress reliever. I think it’s the only thing that has kept me from going entirely off the rails while we get this off the ground and start planning for the new kitchen, which we now have just nine weeks to complete.
I watch the ball roll closer, then hit the button on the right side just in time, sending the silver sphere soaring up the playfield. The machine makes a bunch of noise, lights flash, and my score goes up, up, up on the little screen in the middle.
It’s annoying how elated it makes me, especially since none of this matters at all.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
I jump at the intrusion and turn to find Summer leaning against the doorway to the new arcade. The area used to be semiprivate and quieter, with seating, but not many people came back here, so I figuredthis would be a great place to convert into something more engaging for customers.
“What are you doing here? Here to say you’ve come to your senses and will help us with the kitchen?”
Her eyes narrow for a moment. “My senses ...” she repeats disdainfully. “My answer is still no, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I try not to show how disappointed I am by that. I’ve spent the last five days trying to sort out what exactly we all need to make the kitchen better, but since my skills are more of the “poorly fry protein, put noodles in pot, open jar” caliber, I have no idea what I’m doing. I could use her help more than she realizes.
“Then what are you doing here?” I ask again.
“Uh, closing?” Sarcasm drips from each word. It’s maddening how attractive I find it.
I draw my eyes away from the peachy strip of skin that’s peeking out between her jeans and cropped top and right up to the ruby-red lipstick she’s always wearing.
No, not her lips, dammit.
I clear my throat. “Since when? You weren’t supposed to be working tonight.”
She looks surprised by that. “Do you have my schedule memorized or something?”
