“If you ever need anything, Mr. Fischer, feel free to swing by my office.”
I blink, surprised. “Oh, sure. Will do.”
He gives me a polite nod before disappearing back into the crowd. The second he’s out of earshot, I mutter a curse under my breath, hoping I made a decent impression. Or at the very least, that he likes the IPA.
From that point on, there’s a constant line formed at our booth. Customers cycle through nonstop, shouting orders over the thumping music and the boat horns blaring across the harbor. Imani and I are pouring pilsners and handing out bottles as fast as we can.
To my pleasant surprise, I receive a lot of compliments—on our beer, on our logo, oneverything. Each compliment lands like a warm hand on my back, steadying me. Pride pushes up through my ribs, sharp and unexpected.
Maybe I really can build something here. Maybe I really do belong.
I’m handing a customer a taster flight when something in my peripheral vision snags my attention.
A familiar silhouette.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Blond hair falling in tousled waves, brushed by the glow of streetlights.
Ashton.
He’s standing a few yards from the booth, tucked off to the side of the walkway, head bowed as he scrolls through his phone. Alone. My eyes dart around, searching for Luke nearby, or maybe a girlfriend, but there’s nobody.
I flip open the cooler and fish out a bottle of the beer he’d been drinking at the bar. The glass is cold and slick against my palm, numbing my skin.
“Need a smoke break,” I say, tapping the carton of cigarettes in my pocket. “Can you hold down the fort for a few minutes?”
Imani glances up from the cup she’s pouring, foam bubbling over the rim. Her brown eyes narrow just a touch, suspicion pulling her brows together. “Um, yeah. Sure. Go ahead.”
I slip out from behind the booth, weaving through clusters of people holding neon glow sticks and funnel cakes the size of their heads. The music gets louder, lights flashing off the water as the next boat chugs past.
As I cross the parking lot, I flick my lighter and bring a cigarette to my lips, the tip flaring bright orange in the dark. I take a slow drag,trying to settle the hammering in my chest as I approach Ashton. His brows pinch adorably as he types, completely absorbed.
I step beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body.
“Well,” I say, letting a slow smile curl at the corner of my mouth, “if it isn’t my favorite Tremblay brother.”
Ashton startles, whipping his head toward me, green eyes wide. I hadn’t noticed it when he was seated at the bar, but he towers over me. At five-seven, most men—and plenty of women—are taller than I am, but it’s never bothered me. Despite the constant teasing about my height, I’ve never been insecure about it. It’s never stopped me from landing dates. Confidence, after all, is everything.
“O-oh. Uh—hey. Troy, right?” he says, blinking fast.
He’s cute when he stutters.
“Flattered you remember my name, blondie,” I tease, winking at him.
His eyes flick to my mouth, probably looking at the cigarette. I know it’s a lousy habit, one I’d kicked for a decade before the divorce hauled me back into it. The moment he realizes he’s staring, a flush creeps up his cheeks. He clears his throat and takes a deliberate step back, putting a few inches of space between us.
Okay, rude.
“Well, it’s not often we have new faces around here,” he mutters, pocketing his phone. His head turns back toward the parade, but his eyes are unfocused.
“Brought you this,” I say, holding the beer out to him. “You look like you could use a drink.”
He stares down at it, brows knitting. “Oh. Uh… thanks.”
He twists off the cap, the loudhissfilling the silence between us, and raises it to his mouth. Those plush pink lips curl around the glass, his throat working in slow, steady swallows. A dozen sinful thoughts detonate in my mind, making my fingers clench around my cigarette.
“You here alone?” I ask bluntly.
He blinks at me. “I—I, uh, no. I’m here with my brothers. They…” He gestures vaguely toward the food trucks. “Wanted some nachos.”
