I step closer, close enough to see the tiny freckle at the corner of his mouth, the pulse jumping in his neck. “The kiss,” I say flatly.
His breath stutters. He squeezes his eyes shut, chin dipping as loose golden waves fall across his forehead. His hands curl at his sides, knuckles turning white.
“Troy…” He exhales, finally looking up. His green eyes catch the light, and for a split second I forget how to breathe. Only Ashton Tremblay could look this devastatingly beautiful in a dark, dingy alley. “I… we shouldn’t have done that.”
It’s exactly what I was expecting, but his words still slice through me like a blade between my ribs.
I straighten, smoothing myself out, pulling on confidence like a well-worn jacket. I bite the inside of my cheek until a sharp, metallic taste blooms on my tongue.
“Of course,” I say, nodding once. “It won’t happen again.”
His throat bobs. “For the record, I’m not… gay,” he mutters.
“Me neither,” I reply with a small shrug. “I’m bisexual.”
His lips part. “You are?”
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my tone light despite the knots twisting in my stomach. “Is that gonna be a problem?”
He shakes his head quickly. “No. No, I’m not, like, homophobic or anything. I’m just—” He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Surprised.”
“Alright,” I say. I hesitate, then add, quieter, “And for the record, I’m sorry about the kiss. I guess I misread things and got carried away.”
Ashton blinks, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Right.” The word comes out clipped, like there’s more he wants to say, but the rest dies on his tongue.
“I shouldn’t have crossed that line,” I continue, steady and careful. “From here on out, we’ll keep it totally professional.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Of course.”
We linger for a moment longer, facing each other in the dim alley beside an overflowing dumpster. It’s about as unromantic as it gets—which feels appropriate. I just wish my body would take the hint. Despite his clear boundaries and obvious disinterest, my heart keeps thrumming like it missed the memo.
Rolling back my shoulders, I gesture out to the street. “After you.”
Ashton turns first, heading back into the sunlight and the noise of the market. I follow a step behind, leaving a deliberate, painful space between us.
The taproom smells like citrus and hops, the low hum of the coolers vibrating through the floor as I run my new employee through the basics behind the bar. Sunlight pours in from the lake-facing windows, scattering across the natural wood bartop. For a midafternoon weekday, it’s mercifully slow—perfect for Shane’s first shift at Black Cat Brewery.
Shane has that easy, open kind of charisma that makes him easy to talk to. Early twenties, pearly-white smile, sleeves of traditional tattoos wrapping pale skin beneath his T-shirt. His black hair is faded on the sides, cropped on top, his curls catching the light when he moves.
“Draft system’s touchy,” I tell him, tapping the stainless steel handle. “If you yank it too hard, you’ll get nothing but foam, so be careful.”
Shane grins. “Trust me. I’ve been yelled at by enough IPA bros to know the drill.”
I huff out a laugh. “Good. You’ll fit right in around here.”
The bell above the door chimes, a rush of warm air drifting in with a small group of customers. My gaze snaps up instinctively, searching for familiar blond hair and sharp emerald eyes. Every time a low, easy laugh carries across the taproom, my heart leaps out of my chest, hoping it might be Ashton.
It never is. Of course it isn’t. We haven’t spoken since the farmers market, and the silence between us grows heavier by the day.
I turn back to the black plastic bin tucked beneath the bar, overflowing with dirty pint glasses. “When this fills up, you can drop it off in the kitchen,” I tell Shane. “Dishwasher’s back there, just past the prep sink.”
He nods, following my gaze. “Got it.”
“Actually,” I add, lifting the bin to show him, “it’s pretty full now, so—”
A glass tumbles off the top edge, slipping free in slow motion before smashing against the concrete floor. The sound is sharp and violent, echoing through the quiet taproom.
“Shit,” I mutter, already bending down as shards skitter across the floor.
