“No,” he answers, voice low and rough. He extends his hand to shake mine. The silver rings around his fingers press cool and hard against my skin. “Nice to meet you. I’m Troy.”
For a second too long, I just… hold his gaze. His eyes are a deep honey brown, warm and smooth as amber, framed by thick black lashes. I’ve never seen lashes like that on a man before.
Wait—what the hell? Why am I noticing that? It’s gotta be the alcohol or lack of sleep. I’m more exhausted than usual.
Clearing my throat, I shift my focus to the kegs stacked behind him. “Uh… so, you work for Black Cat Brewery?”
His lips part, his tongue catching on the ring embedded in the pink flesh. “I’m the owner.”
“Oh. Cool.” I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, trying to ground myself in something—anything—that doesn’t involve staring at him. “I like your beer. Hard to find good local brews around here.”
“Thanks.” A small smile curves his mouth. “You should come check out our taproom sometime. We’re rolling out a food menu next week.”
I run my tongue across my top teeth, nodding. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll swing by.”
His eyes flicker between mine for a moment before he turns his back to me, unloading the kegs. His arms flex beneath his shirt, hoisting them with ease as he stacks them behind the bar.
He grabs the handles of his trolley, nodding at Luke. “See you next week.”
As he disappears through the back exit, the door thudding softly behind him, I realize I’m still watching the space where he stood.
Luke exhales, wiping his hands on a rag. “Troy’s a nice guy. Kinda weird, though.”
I raise a brow. “Weird, how?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. Just… quiet. He moved here to open the brewery a few months ago. Doesn’t socialize much.” He leans in closer, lowering his voice slightly. “Plus, I heard he’s got a criminal record.”
I blink a few times, still staring at the door Troy just walked through. “Huh. What’d he get in trouble for?”
“Dunno. He’s not a big fan of small talk.” Luke exhales a heavy breath as he starts hooking up a keg. “Still… his beer’s damn good. Can’t argue with that.”
I nod absently and take another sip of my drink, the taste of hops bitter on my tongue. Around me, the tavern hums with quiet conversation and the clink of glass against wood, but my mind drifts elsewhere—to frost warnings, invoices, and the endless lists of things that could go wrong.
A lump forms in my throat, small but solid, like a cherry pit I can’t swallow or spit out. No matter how hard I try to ignore it, it just sits there, heavy and unmovable.
For the first time in my life, the start of cherry season doesn’t fill me with pride or excitement. I’m goddamn terrified.
Chapter Two
Troy
Theheatinthebrewhouse is humid and heavy, the kind that sticks to your lungs. I’m crouched beneath the kettle with a wrench in one hand and a flashlight clenched between my teeth, sweat rolling down my back. The pipe connecting the kettle to the fermenter has been dripping all damn morning, leaving a thin puddle on the concrete floor.
“Come on,” I mutter around the flashlight, giving the joint another twist. Metal grinds together, then settles with a satisfyingclick. The leak stops.
Finally.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist, smearing sweat across flushed skin. My T-shirt is soaked through, clinging to my chest like an annoying, suffocating second skin. I drop the wrench into the toolbox with a clang and push to my feet, stretching my stiff shoulders.
The brewhouse always smells like warm grain, steel, and yeast—a scent I’ve grown to love. It’s a reminder that my dream has finally become a reality. The whole ordeal of moving to a different state for a fresh start has been both exhilarating and terrifying.
I step through the swinging door into the taproom, blinking as the soft natural light pours through the big lake-facing windows. The chatter of customers hums through the space as people laugh over flights, clinking glasses.
The lake is a sheet of late-afternoon blue beyond the glass, sunlight rippling across the waves. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. Worth every hour of sweat and stress.
When my commercial real estate agent first showed me this place, I knew it was meant to be mine. I hadn’t ever heard of Claremont Shores: a tiny, insignificant, conservative tourist town nestled on Lake Michigan. But somehow, when I saw a picture of this view, it sang to me like a siren calling me home.
I step behind the bar, grab a glass of water, and take a long, grateful gulp before heading for the kitchen.
