Troy clears his throat and looks past me, toward the edge of the orchard. “So, uh—where do you load the cherries up for shipping? I’d like to see how that all works.”
Relief hits me so hard my knees almost buckle. Thank God, he wants to change the subject.
“Yeah, sure,” I say with a shrug. “I can show you. It’s just down by the barn.”
“Perfect,” he says, already turning away.
We walk back to the four-wheeler in stiff silence. I swing my leg over the seat and start the engine, the familiar rumble settling my nerves. Troy climbs on behind me, slowly and carefully, leaving a deliberate inch of space between us.
This time, to my traitorous disappointment, he doesn’t wrap his arms around my waist.
The drive across the orchard is tense and stretches on far too long. When we hit a dip in the dirt trail, the ATV lurches, and Troy’s body slides briefly against mine. The contact is fleeting, but it still sends a sharp buzz through my nerves.
“Sorry,” he mutters, quickly shifting back.
My jaw clenches, my hand tightening on the clutch as I keep my eyes fixed ahead.
When we reach the barn, I’m relieved to find we’re not alone.Olivia stands on the flatbed of a truck, tightening bright yellow ratchet straps around a container of cherries. Her blond hair is tucked beneath a baseball cap stamped with her university’s mascot—a goofy, cartoonish sturgeon fish.
Juan is beside her, stacking up more crates. He’s worked with our family for over twenty years. He’s soft-spoken, dependable, and my dad’s former right-hand man. He tips his head toward me in a silent greeting as Troy and I climb off the ATV.
I hesitate longer than I should, dusting imaginary dirt off my knees before forcing myself forward. “Hey,” I say, the word landing awkwardly between us. “Uh, this is Troy. He owns Black Cat Brewery.”
Olivia straightens, giving Troy a once-over before hopping down from the truck. Juan wipes his hands on his jeans and follows. Troy steps in smoothly, already smiling and extending a hand.
“Troy Fischer,” he says. “Nice to meet you both.”
Juan shakes his hand first, nodding. “Juan.”
Olivia’s grip is firm, her smile curious. “I’m Olivia,” she says softly. “Ashton’s little sister.”
A teasing smirk dances across his lips. “My deepest condolences. I can’t imagine it was easy, growing up with Luke and Ashton bossing you around.”
She snorts. “Please. I might be younger, but I’m the real boss around here.”
I roll my eyes. “In your dreams, Liv.”
She shoves my shoulder playfully. Despite being short, she’s strong. I stumble before catching myself, boots scraping against the hard-packed dirt.
“Sooo,” Olivia drawls, her gaze flicking between Troy and me, “does Dad know about your business collaboration yet?”
I wince. “No. I haven’t told him.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “I was going to bring it up during our next family supper.”
Olivia’s mouth twists into a grimace. “Oh,” she says. “That’ll be… interesting.”
Juan lets out a low chuckle, folding his arms across his chest as he looks at me. “Putting the Tremblay name on alcohol?” He clicks his tongue. “Your dad’s not gonna like that, mijo.”
I stiffen, jaw tightening. “Yeah, well…”
“Ash,” Juan adds, softer now. “Your dad’s old-school. He doesn’t like change. He’s proud of this place—of what the name stands for.”
“I know,” I say, meeting his gaze. My voice stays steady, even if my pulse isn’t. “But it’s my decision now. Not his.”
Juan studies me for a moment, something thoughtful passing behind his eyes. Then he laughs, short and warm, shaking his head as he steps back. “Alright. It’s your funeral.”
He turns and walks off, leaving the words hanging heavy in the air.
My stomach knots as I watch him go. Family supper suddenly feels less like a meal and more like a sentencing. Dad has always had a talent for finding flaws in everything I do—every choice picked apart, every risk framed as an inevitable mistake. This business deal is practically an invitation for criticism, ammunition served up on a silver platter.
