I lean into the handle and crank harder. The motion is brutal and repetitive, shoulders burning as resistance builds. My breath turns rough, sweat gathering fast along my back, the air growing hot and sticky around me. The music pounds in my ears, my muscles tensing as I work.
Halfway through, I stop long enough to shrug out of my flannel and toss it onto the floor. The black tank top clings to me, damp with sweat, my chest rising and falling as I wipe my hands on my jeans and get back to it.
My arms ache. My hands prickle with sharp pain as they grip the rough wooden handle. Juice splatters my forearms in dark streaks. Despite it all, I welcome the burn and exhaustion. It’s easier to focus on this—on something I can control—than on the memory of Ashton’s mouth, the way he kissed me like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want it.
I shouldn’t have wanted him in the first place.
It was naive to think there was something between us. After all, I thought Mel loved me. I was sure of it. I built a future around that certainty, and look how that turned out.
So what makes me think I’d be any better at reading Ashton Tremblay?
The masher squeals as the last of the cherries break down, juice rising to the top of the collection cup. I slow the crank, arms trembling, chest heaving as the machine finally winds down.
Wanting him was reckless enough. But believing he might actually want me back?
That was just plain stupid.
The farmers market is already buzzing when I show up, people packed shoulder to shoulder along the sidewalks, inching forward at a snail’s pace. The air is thick with the smell of kettle corn, fried dough, and fresh-cut flowers. I weave past sunburned families and panting dogs tugging at their leashes until I spot the Tremblay Orchards stand.
Ashton’s there, of course. He’s behind the table with his sleeves rolled up, his expression pulled tight into that familiar, unreadable tension. Olivia stands beside him, bright and animated, chatting easily with a customer as she bags cherries. When Ashton looks up and sees me, something flickers across his face—surprise, followed quickly by a shuttering kind of restraint.
I step up to the booth. “Hey,” I say, keeping it light. “Busy day, huh?”
Olivia beams. “Hey, Troy! Yeah, it’s been nonstop since opening.”
Ashton’s posture stiffens, looking anywhere but my eyes. “Uh—Liv, can you manage the booth for a minute?” he says. “Troy and I need to talk through some business stuff.”
Her brows lift, but she nods. “Sure.”
Ashton steps away without looking at me, tilting his head toward the road that runs past the market. I follow him without comment.
We walk in silence along the sidewalk that parallels the beach, the noise of the market fading behind us. To our right, the lake stretches out in an impossible blue beneath a wide, cloudless sky, sunlight splintering across the water like broken glass.
I clear my throat, breaking the silence. “So,” I start, hooking my thumbs through my belt loops, “I started a trial batch.”
Ashton glances at me, then quickly away again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Used the cherries Olivia gave me.” My gaze falls to the sidewalk, tracing the cracks beneath our feet. “It’ll ferment for about three weeks. After that, I’ll filter and carbonate it. Then we can see what we’re working with.”
He gives a stiff nod. “Sounds good.”
I sneak a look at him. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. The lake breeze ruffles his hair, but he barely seems to notice.
We keep walking, the sidewalk busy with joggers and tourists. The conversation dies again, stretching thin and uncomfortable between us. I can’t take it.
“Hey,” I say, slowing. I reach out and catch his elbow, tugging him gently off the main path. “Come here.”
He startles but doesn’t pull away as I guide him into the narrow alley between two storefronts—a coffee shop and a vintage boutique. The sun disappears behind the buildings, the shade offering welcomed relief, the air faintly scented with old brick and espresso grounds.
Ashton folds his arms, reluctantly facing me. “What’s up?”
“Are we gonna talk about it?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
His brows knit. “Talk about what?”
I huff out a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t do that,” I say. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
He shrugs, gaze sliding past my shoulder. “I really don’t.”
