Troy
Istraightentheforksfor the third time, making sure they’re perfectly aligned atop neatly folded napkins. The dining table is set for two—the first time I’ve used actual silverware since moving here. For months, my meals have consisted of takeout containers and frozen pizza eaten off paper plates, standing in the kitchen or lounging on the couch.
The scent of melted mozzarella and savory chicken drifts from the oven, rich and comforting. Inside, a ceramic casserole dish bubbles with a creamy chicken orzo, one of Imani’s recipes. I followed her meticulously written instructions, measuring every ingredient with the same precision I bring to my brewing. Still, I half expect something to go wrong.
I catch my reflection in the polished silverware and run a hand through my dark hair, willing it to stay in place. My cheeks are flushed, my lips bitten raw from nerves. I trimmed my beard for the first time in months, the sharper line of my jaw unfamiliar, red bumps still dotting my skin despite my best efforts.
A shaky breath leaves me as I try to steady myself. I’ve hooked up with plenty of people since Mel and I split, but this is my first real date. And the fact that it’s with Ashton fucking Tremblay only heightens the pressure. He shakes my confidence in a way that’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
Across the room, Cryptid lets out a soft trill and looks up at me, head cocked in interest. He always knows when I’m wound too tight. During the worst of the divorce, he slept on my chestevery night, grounding me when my body shook with silent sobs. I honestly don’t know how I would’ve survived without him.
“I’m okay, buddy,” I murmur, crouching to scratch behind his ears. “Daddy’s just nervous.”
A rhythmic thud breaks the quiet, cautious footsteps climbing the apartment stairs.
Cryptid lets out an excited chirp and bolts for the door just as I reach for the handle. I stick my leg out at the last second, blocking him as I crack it open.
“Oh, hey.”
Ashton stands in the dim hallway in a red flannel and worn jeans, shoulders slightly hunched. His hands disappear into his pockets, then reappear just as quickly, like he can’t decide what to do with them.
“Hey,” he says, awkward and soft.
“Sorry,” I add quickly as Cryptid wedges his face between my calf and the doorframe, determined to escape. “This is Cryptid. He, uh—loves meeting new people. I can put him in the bedroom if you don’t like cats.”
Ashton laughs under his breath. “No, it’s fine. I love cats.”
I pull the door open wider, and Ashton slips past me, his shoulder brushing mine as he steps inside. The door clicks shut behind him, and Cryptid immediately winds around his ankles, tail held high, purring loud and insistent. Ashton lets out a soft chuckle and bends to scratch beneath Cryptid’s chin.
Warmth spreads through my chest as I watch him, fondness blooming before I can stop it. “Good,” I say lightly. “If you hated cats, that would’ve been a deal-breaker, honestly.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah? Guess I passed the first test.”
He keeps petting Cryptid, fingers confident and gentle. “I grew up with a ton of barn cats around the orchard,” he adds. “Dad never let them inside, though.”
I hum. “My dad had a pitbull at one point, but no cats. He’s my first—and the best.”
Ashton runs a hand along Cryptid’s back. “My favorite barn cat was named Rusty.” He pauses, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “Mean as hell, missing an ear, but he was the best mouse-catcher we ever had.”
“Sounds like a hard worker,” I say with a wink, “like someone else I know.”
Ashton laughs as he straightens, brushing cat hair from his knees. A flush creeps up his cheeks. “I could say the same about you.”
I fight back a grin and gesture toward the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s wash up—dinner’s almost ready.”
Ashton nods and follows me, pausing briefly as his gaze drifts around the apartment. It’s nothing fancy, full of mismatched decorations and whatever furniture I was left with after the divorce, but I still feel a flicker of nerves under his quiet appraisal.
At the sink, I scrub my hands under warm water, the scent of citrus soap blooming in the air. “This place is just temporary,” I say, watching the suds spiral down the drain. “I want something more permanent eventually. A house, maybe.”
We stand side by side, washing our hands, shoulders brushing every so often. I dry my hands on a towel and lean back against the counter. “I’m hoping I can stay in Claremont Shores long-term. As long as the brewery keeps doing well.”
Ashton glances at me. “It will,” he says, without hesitation.
The ease of his confidence sends a flutter through my chest.
“This summer will be the real test,” I say with a shrug. “Tourist season. If we can sustain business through that, I’ll know I made the right call.”
He smiles, easy and reassuring. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
