Troy huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, like he’s amused by how easy I am to rattle. He tucks the carton under his arm, still smirking.
“Can you swing by the brewery tomorrow morning?” he asks. “We don’t open until noon, so it’ll be easier to show you around without customers crowding the taproom.”
I hesitate at the thought of being alone. Withhim.
“Uh… sure,” I mutter. “I can do tomorrow.”
“Perfect.” He lifts the cherries in the air, almost like a toast. “It’s a date.”
My stomach plummets. I open my mouth to argue—to tell him it’s not a date—but nothing comes out. My feet stay rooted to the pavement as he walks away, leaving me red-faced and buzzing with nerves.
What the hell did I just agree to?
Chapter Twelve
Troy
I’vebeencleaningthesame damn fermentation tank for ten minutes.
My rag moves in slow circles across the stainless steel, the citrusy polish sharp in my nose, but I barely notice it. All I can focus on is my warped reflection staring back at me. Even through the distortion, the anxiety is obvious—my hair damp with sweat, my lips chewed raw from biting them.
The smudge I spotted on the tank this morning is long gone. I’m just stalling at this point, trying to give my nerves time to settle. Which is ridiculous. I give brewery tours all the time. Investors, distributors, curious tourists who only want a selfie. I could talk through the process in my sleep.
But this isn’t a regular tour.
This is Ashton.
I need this deal to go through. More than that, I want him to see I know what I’m doing—that this place isn’t just some small-town passion project I stumbled into. I built this brewery from the ashes of my previous life. I clawed my way out of that wreckage and came out standing, driven by a new hunger to chase the life I actually wanted.
In a way, every bit of success I’ve had since that horrible day is its own quiet “fuck you” to the people who tried to break me. And admittedly, I want Ashton to be impressed too.
A sharp knock hits the side entrance door, loud enough to make me nearly drop the bottle of cleaning spray in my hand. I set mysupplies aside, palms suddenly damp, and cross the brewhouse toward the heavy metal door.
Showtime.
When I pull it open, Ashton is standing there in the alleyway, hands stuffed in his pockets. And damn, he looks good.
He’s wearing muddy boots and worn denim jeans, dust clinging to the knees. His black T-shirt dips low at the collar, exposing the clean lines of his collarbones and a faint patch of blond chest hair. A blue baseball cap sits on his head, taming his messy golden waves.
“Sorry,” he says with a nervous laugh, knocking his boots together to shake the clumps of dirt loose. “I’m a mess. I was at the orchard.”
He definitely doesn’t look like a mess. If anything, the dirt and sweat only make him sexier.
“It’s fine,” I say, stepping back to let him in. “You’re fine. Come on.”
Ashton slips inside hesitantly, arms folded across his chest like he’s afraid of taking up too much space. His gaze sweeps the brewhouse, wide and curious, tracking up toward the high ceiling crisscrossed with stainless steel piping. Each step he takes across the concrete floor echoes loudly, the sound ricocheting off brick and metal.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to stop staring. “So… this is the heart of the operation,” I say, gesturing around us.
He nods, eyes bright as he steps closer, craning his neck to take it all in. “It’s… bigger than I expected.”
I can’t stop the smile that forms on my face. Does he realize how that sounds, or is he really just this obliviously innocent? Either way, I fucking love it.
“Yeah,” I say lightly, a hint of amusement in my voice. “I get that a lot.”
His ears go pink and he lets out an awkward little chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze drops to the concrete floor.
I know I should put him out of his misery, but he’s so darn cute when he’s flustered.
