Right on cue, Cryptid hops onto the couch and promptly climbs into Ashton’s lap, purring loudly as he rubs against him. Ashton snickers, scratching his fingers through the cat’s sleek black fur.
“I think he likes me,” Ashton says with a wide grin, dimples and all.
I lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek, watching the color bloom there almost instantly. “Yeah,” I say with a smile, “that makes two of us.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ashton
Heatrollsoffthefermenters in slow, pulsing waves, filling the humid air with the scents of yeast and hops. I wipe my palms on my jeans and lean against a stainless-steel table, pretending to pay attention to whatever the hell Troy is talking about. The brewhouse is empty except for the two of us, surrounded by the constant hum of machinery and Troy’s voice echoing off the brick walls.
“So, glass gives you that premium, artisanal feel,” he says, tapping a finger against an amber bottle. “It’s more expensive than aluminum.” He shifts his weight, then adds, “But cans are lighter. Better for transport, cheaper long-term, more forgiving with temperature fluctuations.”
I nod along as he grabs two cans, explaining the volume differences and the shape of the pull tab. He’s meticulous, every detail rolling off his tongue with professionalism, but I’m absolutely not paying attention.
What Iamdoing is staring at the sheen of sweat along his throat, the way it glistens under the industrial lights. His black T-shirt is darkened at the collar, clinging just enough to hint at muscle beneath. The sleeves of his denim jacket are rolled up to his elbows, exposing inked forearms.
Dark lines and shapes wrap around his tan skin. I’ve seen some of his tattoos before, when his sleeves have been rolled up, or he’s moved at just the right angle to lift the hem of his shirt. A raven. Phases of the moon. Something floral I haven’t gotten close enoughto identify yet. The thought of finally getting him undressed makes my stomach flip.
And his hair—Jesus.
The ends of his mullet are slick with sweat, curling and sticking to the back of his neck. I have a completely unhelpful, deeply distracting urge to brush them away. Or tug them. Or both.
“—so if we’re thinking seasonal release versus year-round,” Troy continues, “that might affect which container makes more sense. Especially with branding.”
I hum in agreement. Convincing, I think.
My eyes track the way his mouth moves when he talks. The little crease that forms between his brows when he’s focused. The way his hands move adamantly, chipped black polish on his fingernails.
“Ashton?”
I blink, snapping back to reality like I’ve just surfaced from underwater. “What?”
Troy gives me a knowing grin. “I asked which direction you’re leaning. Glass or cans.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Right. That.”
He crosses his arms, the motion pulling his shirt tighter across his chest. “You weren’t listening.”
“I was,” I say automatically.
“Mmm.” He tilts his head, studying me. “You were checking me out.”
Heat floods my face. “I—what? No.”
He laughs, soft and teasing, and steps closer until our chests almost touch. “This is a very important business decision we should make together. You know. As partners.”
I shake my head. “Honestly, you’re more knowledgeable about this stuff than me. I trust whatever decision you make. If you want my opinion on farming equipment, then I’m your man,” I add, chuckling softly. “But I’ll leave this up to you.”
Troy’s tongue swipes across his upper teeth. “You’re telling me you don’t care about our collaboration? I’m hurt.”
A fond smile cracks across my lips. “I’m just saying, I can think of other things I’d rather be doing right now,” I say, my voice low, “than talking about brew containers.”
His brown eyes darken, pupils blown wide with interest. He grips my hips and drives me backward until I thump against a metal tank, the vibration shuddering straight through my bones. My breath turns hot and uneven as I stare down at him, the space between us growing steamier than the machinery alone could ever explain.
He has no idea what he does to me. Ever since our first date at his apartment last week, he’s been carefully honoring my request to take things slow. He lets me set the pace, lets me initiate every hug and kiss, and I haven’t allowed things to go any further. Partially because I’m trying to be cautious—but mostly because I’m terrified of beingbadat it.
But now he’s looking up at me with unmistakable hunger, his tongue worrying the ring on the inside of his bottom lip. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush. Just waits, patient and steady, giving me the space to choose.
