“Hey, Troy!” he booms. “How’s it going, man?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
Standing just behind him is a taller, thinner figure who looks younger. His upper lip is marked by the beginnings of a wispy mustache, his long blond hair falling to his shoulders in frizzy strands.
“Oh—this is our little brother, Justin,” Luke says, nudging him with his elbow. “Justin, this is Troy. Brewery Guy.”
Justin gives a polite nod. “Hi,” he murmurs, so quietly it’s almost swallowed by the music.
“Hey,” I say, offering a tight smile. “Good to meet you.”
He nods again, shifting his weight as if he’d rather sink into the pavement than be the center of attention.
Luke shovels a nacho into his mouth and talks around it. “You sellin’ a lot of beer tonight? This crowd is massive, man.”
“Yeah. It’s been a good night so far,” I say, though my attention keeps drifting back to Ashton.
He’s tense beside me, cheeks flushed as he pretends to study the parade. It’s adorable—the way he tries to act unaffected when it’s painfully obvious he wants me. Maybe he hasn’t realized it yet, but he will. Eventually. It’s inevitable.
I clear my throat, easing back a step. “Well, I should let you guys enjoy the rest of the parade. I need to get back to my booth before my employee assumes I’ve ditched her.”
Luke claps me on the back. “Later, dude.”
Justin offers a shy half-wave.
When I turn to Ashton, he finally lifts his gaze—vivid green eyes catching the moonlight. A faint lake breeze ruffles his hair, tossing a few strands across his forehead. He bites the inside of his cheek, jaw tightening.
“See you around, Ashton,” I say, adding a deliberate wink meant only for him.
And with that, I turn and head back toward the lights and noise of the parade, feeling his gaze burning between my shoulder blades.
Chapter Five
Ashton
Thesoundofgrindingmetal groans above me, the tractor rattling with every twist of my wrench. I’m on my back beneath it, finishing an oil change, though I’ve probably checked the same bolts three times by now. Hard to focus when my brain keeps looping back to the same damn worry.
It’s been two weeks since Phoebe and I argued at my place. Two weeks of unanswered texts, ignored calls, and me staring helplessly at my phone, waiting for a bomb to drop.
Logically, I know she wouldn’t actually tell anyone her wild theories about my sexuality. She’s still my friend, even when she’s furious. But the not-knowing is driving me insane. One whisper in a town like Claremont Shores, and suddenly everyone’s heard it. I can’t risk it. Not with my family. Not with my reputation. Not with… everything.
I slide out from under the tractor, wipe my greasy hands on a rag, and check my phone again.
Nothing. No calls or texts. Just a blank screen staring back at me—and my reflection, dark circles under my eyes, dirt smudged across my face, looking wrecked.
“You’re not gonna get much work done if you keep staring at that thing,” Dad says from the doorway.
I jolt, quickly shoving the phone into my pocket like a kid caught doing something wrong. Dad steps into the barn, one white eyebrow raised in that familiar warning.
For Christ’s sake—I’m twenty-four and still getting scolded by my dad.
Ignoring him, I keep working while he stands nearby, cold eyes tracking my every move. I pour the fresh oil through the funnel, listening to it gurgle until the last jug is empty. Squinting in the dim light, I check the dipstick. Perfect.
Of course, that’s not good enough for Dad.
He circles around and snatches the dipstick, clearly not trusting my judgment. His tongue works over his teeth as he inspects it, gaze sharp and tense.
Finally, he lets out a half-satisfied grunt and slides the dipstick back in place. I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing that’s the closest thing to approval I’ll ever get from him. It’s not a “good job” or “proud of you,” but it’ll have to do.
