I can already hear it: lectures about tradition, about reputation, about how I’m cheapening our family name. God forbid he ever meets Troy in person and finds out he’s pierced, tattooed, and flirts with everyone he meets, regardless of gender. That revelation alone might send him straight into a second heart attack.
I exhale slowly, trying to smother the fire raging in my chest.
Troy clears his throat beside me, shifting his weight. “Well,” he says, forcing an easy smile, “I should probably get going. I want to start messing around with cider recipes.”
“Already?” Olivia says, eyebrows lifting.
“Yeah,” he replies. “If I’m doing this, I want to do it right. Experiment a little.”
Before I can respond, Olivia steps away and crouches near one of the stacks of small wooden crates by the barn. She grabs one filled to the brim with cherries—deep red and freshly harvested—and hoists it up with ease. When she turns back, she nestles it into Troy’s arms.
“Take these,” she says.
“Thanks, Olivia.”
He balances the crate against his hip and gives her arm a gentle, grateful squeeze. Something tight twists in my chest as I watch him meet her gaze with that effortless, disarming charm of his. I don’t miss the faint flush creeping into Olivia’s cheeks.
Not that I can blame her. Troy seems to have that effect on people—myself included.
Finally, Troy lets out a breath and turns to me. “Uh… I’ll reach out once I’ve got a first batch done,” he says. “We can taste-test. See where we’re at.”
“Yeah,” I reply, too quickly. “Sounds good.”
He nods, like he’s bracing himself, then sticks out a hand. I hesitate before taking it, our shake brief and stiff—nothing like before.
“Bye, Ashton,” he says quietly.
So now I’mAshtonagain? He called meAshearlier, and shamefully, I liked it.
“Bye,” I echo, watching as he turns and heads for his van.
I stand there as he loads the crate into the back, climbs into the driver’s seat, and pulls the door shut. The engine rumbles to life, gravel spewing beneath the tires as he backs out and drives away, disappearing down the long stretch of dirt road.
Chapter Fourteen
Troy
Imaniwasright:goinginto business with Ashton Tremblay was a terrible idea. I should’ve known better. When I’m around him, my self-control evaporates.
I shouldn’t have kissed him.
The moment replays in my head, my grip tightening on the steering wheel as I pull onto the road. The way he froze for half a second before melting into me. The hitch in his breath. The tang of cherry juice on his tongue—sharp, sour, and unmistakablyhim.
Now that I’ve had a proper taste of him, my body won’t let it go. It wants more. More of that quiet tension behind his eyes, more of the way he tries so damn hard to be responsible while his instincts betray him. I can still feel the solid line of his body under my hands, the way he trembled like he was standing at the edge of something dangerous.
I should’ve backed off the second I saw that flicker of panic cross his face.
I don’t do this with straight guys—or closeted queer guys, for that matter. I’ve been out and proud since I was fifteen, and before Mel, I only hooked up with men who were openly queer. Kissing a man like Ashton Tremblay, in a town like Claremont Shores, was a reckless decision.
Still, I can’t bring myself to regret it. Not entirely.
By the time I pull into the gravel lot behind the brewery, the sun has dipped low enough to stain the sky orange and bruised purple.The place is dark, the neon red CLOSED sign glowing in the large bay windows.
I let myself in through the side entrance and lock it behind me. The sound echoes in the empty space. Without the hum of conversation or the clink of glasses, the brewery feels cavernous, stripped down to concrete floors, red brick walls, and stainless steel.
With the carton of cherries tucked under my arm, I push through the double doors into the brewhouse. I drop the box onto the worktable and, with more force than necessary, jab the power button on the speaker perched on the bench. Music floods the space—something loud and guitar-heavy, all grit and distortion. The volume’s probably excessive, but that’s the point. I need the noise. I need something to drown him out.
I dump the cherries into the hopper of the fruit masher, the skins glossy and dark under the harsh overhead lights. The machine groans when I start cranking, metal protesting as the gears catch. Juice spills out thick and red, splattering into the collection bin below.
