I shove off the stool and stand, frustration buzzing under my skin. “I know,” I snap, raking a hand through my hair. “I know it was stupid, okay? I don’t need a lecture.”
Imani rises with me, surprisingly calm. She steps closer and squeezes my shoulder. “Hey,” she says softly. “I get it. Wanting someone you can’t have? That’s kind of my specialty.”
My chest tightens. I blink hard, refusing to let my eyes burn. I’m not doing this in front of Imani. We may be friends, but she’s still my employee.
She exhales. “I warned you, Troy. Ashton was always a bad idea. If his family ever found out—”
“They won’t,” I cut in quickly. “It’s not happening again. I already talked to him.” My jaw sets. “He’s straight. He said he wants things to stay strictly professional.”
Imani studies my face for a long second before pulling me into a warm hug. Her muscled arms slide around my waist, squeezing gently.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against my shoulder.
I let myself sink into her for a beat before pulling back, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “Me too.”
She tips her head, considering. “You know,” she says, her voice brightening with purpose, “we should take you out sometime.There’s that gay bar in Salwal—Jasmine and I love it. Might be good for you. Find a nice guy. Get Ashton out of your system.”
“Absolutely not,” I scoff. “I would rather die than be a third wheel on a date with you and your wife.”
Imani snorts. “Wow. Dramatic.”
I clear my throat and step back, rolling my shoulders like I can physically shake the weight off. “Alright,” I say, forcing a lighter, teasing tone. “I should get back out there before Shane gets stuck alone with the evening rush. And you should stop slacking. Get back to work.”
She laughs and turns toward the stove. “Sure thing, boss. Use a broom next time you break glass, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” I push through the double doors, then pause when her voice stops me.
“Troy,” she says, softer now. “There are plenty of fish in the sea, man. Or lake, I guess, since we’re in Claremont Shores and all.” She chuckles at her own joke. “You’ll find someone else, okay?”
I glance back over my shoulder, offering her a small smile. “Thanks.”
But when I step back into the taproom, the noise swelling around me again, I know it’s not true. I don’t want anyone else.
I only want him.
Chapter Fifteen
Ashton
Theporchlightisalready on when I pull into my parents’ driveway, its familiar yellow glow cutting through the early evening haze. My truck ticks as it cools, metal popping softly while I sit there with my eyes fixed on the house, hands clenched around the steering wheel.
I’ve survived countless family dinners—most of them loud, warm, and wrapped in easy laughter—but tonight my skin buzzes with nerves. Whatever comfort this place usually offers feels useless when I think about what I’m about to tell my dad. I can already picture the tightened expression of disappointment and resentment spread across his wrinkled face.
The moment I open the door, I’m hit with the smell of cumin, roasted peppers, and something unmistakably cheesy. Hunger rumbles low in my stomach as I step into the frenzied kitchen, the chaos oddly comforting.
Classic rock hums from the radio, an old station my dad refuses to change. Chloe is perched on a stool at the counter, sleeves shoved up, confidently spooning filling into tortillas. Mom stands at the stove, stirring a pot of red sauce.
Chloe spots me first. “Ash!” She grins, blond curls bouncing as she hops down. “We’re making enchiladas.”
I pull her into a quick hug, smiling against the top of her head. “Smells incredible.”
Mom turns from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, her smile immediate and bright. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says, crossing the kitchen to wrap me in a hug that smells like onions and garlic.
Chloe goes back to assembling enchiladas, brow furrowed in concentration. She turned fifteen last week and is determined to prove she’s capable. I have a feeling it’s because she wants to convince Mom and Dad to let her get her learner’s permit.
Mom gestures for me to sit, so I claim one of the stools as I watch them move around each other like a coordinated dance. This kitchen has always been the heart of the house. It’s where arguments start and end, where no matter what’s said, we always find our way back to share a meal together.
“So,” Mom says casually, sprinkling cheese over a pan. “How’s the orchard?”
