The cool night air hits me as I step outside. I cross the empty lot and climb into my van, the engine rumbling to life while Imani’s warning echoes a little too loudly in my head. As I drive back to my apartment, I keep the windows cracked, sitting in silence and listening to the distant crash of waves against the lakeshore.
When I walk through the door, Cryptid swarms me, pawing at my legs and chirping excitedly. I scratch behind his ears as he nudges my hand, a small smile tugging at my lips. No matter how long or frustrating the day has been, it’s comforting to know Cryptid is always happy to see me when I get home.
After feeding him, I collapse onto the couch and open my laptop. My accountant, Lauren, emailed a few forms that need my attention. It takes every ounce of self-discipline to focus on them instead of zoning out in front of the TV. This is by far my least favorite part of running my own business. I’ve never been a financial whiz—or even remotely good with money. Mel always handled all that in our marriage.
Needless to say, I had a lot to learn after we split.
One of the forms Lauren sent is an employment eligibility verification for a prospective new hire—a young bartender named Shane. He seemed like a nice enough guy during the interview. He’ll covershifts at the taproom whenever I’m busy, and assuming the hiring process goes smoothly, he should be starting soon.
I’ve been trying to hire a server for the taproom too, but haven’t had much luck. In a small town like Claremont Shores, I’m not surprised it takes time to find good help around here. The hiring pool is just so limited.
The cushion shifts beneath me when Cryptid jumps onto the couch, brushing against my elbow. He gazes up at me with big green eyes, a low purr rumbling in his chest. His eyes flicker to the laptop resting on my thighs, then back to me.
Okay, fine. I guess the paperwork can wait.
I shut my computer and set it on the coffee table. Cryptid instantly curls into my unoccupied lap, a warm and steady weight. I pet his fur, letting the soft, silky strands slip through my fingers. His damp nose nuzzles against my stomach.
“Rough day, huh?” I murmur.
Cryptid chirps in a response like he understands me.
He’s always been a clingy cat, but ever since Mel and I split, he’s attached to me like Velcro. I often worry he gets lonely while I’m at work, but since he doesn’t like other cats, adopting a companion isn’t an option. He’s friendly with people, though—he loves everyone. Whenever I’ve brought a hookup home, he’s all over them before I can even lead them to the bedroom.
Surprisingly, being a single cat dad seems to be a big turn-on for women. Something about the contradiction between my rugged exterior and soft interior, I guess.
I bet Ashton likes cats too. He’s a gentle giant.
I place a hand over my chest, suddenly aware of how fast my heart is pounding just at the thought of Ashton. Cryptid looks up at me, head tilted like he’s noticed something is off. He lets out a curious meow.
“I know, buddy.” I sigh and stroke his fur again, shaking my head in defeat. “I’m so fucked.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ashton
Windrustlesthebranchesoverhead, casting dancing shadows across the ground. Plump red cherries catch the sunlight, glistening with morning dew. As I walk the narrow path between the rows of trees, damp grass brushes my ankles, soaking through my jeans.
I can’t stop thinking about Troy. Just the thought of showing him around the orchard makes my stomach twist into knots. My brain goes fuzzy whenever he’s around. Something about his effortless charm and quiet confidence has this annoying habit of making me forget my own name.
Is going into business with him a bad idea? The thought flashes through my mind, but I already agreed. Backing out now would be rude, disrespectful even. And the last thing I want is to hurt Troy’s feelings—especially considering how kind he’s been to me.
My chest tightens at the sound of tires crunching over gravel. I glance up to see Troy’s van rolling down the long, winding driveway that connects to the main road. The engine rumbles through the quiet morning, breaking the orchard’s stillness. His hand hangs out of the cracked window, a cigarette pinched between his fingers.
He parks near the barn and takes one last drag. I watch through the windshield as he smothers the cigarette in the van’s ashtray, then climbs out, black combat boots planting firmly on the dirt.
“Hey,” he calls, exhaling smoke with the word.
As always, he looks effortlessly attractive. A black T-shirt clings to his muscled arms and chest, highlighting his tan skin marked withfaded ink. Light denim jeans swallow his thighs, a silver-studded belt strung between the loops.
“Hey,” I reply with an awkward wave, because apparently I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
“Jesus. How many acres is this place?” Troy asks, glancing around.
“A little over one fifty.”
“Holy shit. I mean, I thought it looked big from the road, but—wow.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, it’s a lot of trees. Um, tart cherries are grown here on the east side of the farm, and the sweet varieties are over to the west.”
