I’m thirsting over a man in goddamn overalls.
Absolutelypathetic.
My eyes track his movements as he steps into the brewery, flushed and breathless, blond hair damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His cheeks are bright red, chest rising and falling a little too fast, like he sprinted the whole way here. There’s a wild, panicked edge in his eyes that doesn’t match the lazy afternoon lull.
My stomach drops.
I round the bar before he even spots me. “Hey—” I catch his elbow gently and steer him toward the hallway that leads to the storage room, away from the handful of customers nursing pints. “What’s wrong?”
He swallows, dragging a hand down his face. Up close, I can see the faint tremor in his fingers. “My dad called.”
That alone is enough to tighten every muscle in my body. “Okay…”
“He wants to have dinner.” Ashton’s gaze flicks to mine, then away again. “With both of us.”
I blink. “As in… with you and me?”
“He specifically said he wants to meet you.” Ashton’s lips twist like the words taste sour. “He said he wants to get to know the man who’s putting our family’s money at risk.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “The family’s money? It’syourfucking money, Ash, not theirs.”
His lips press into a thin, straight line. He doesn’t correct me, but he doesn’t agree either.
I sigh, scrubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “Do you want me to come?” I ask quietly. “Is it important to you?”
He nods. “Yeah. It is.” His voice softens. “My whole life, I’ve chased my dad’s approval. If there’s anything I want him to approve of—more than anything—it’s you.”
Something hopeful and dangerous flickers to life in my chest, but I force myself to smother it. I can’t afford to feel too much, too fast.
“Okay,” I say, squeezing his hands. “Then I’m in.”
His shoulders loosen a fraction, relief flickering across his face. “Thanks.”
I reach up and tug lightly at the strap of his overalls, grounding both of us. “Next time,” I murmur, “maybe lead with the dinner invite instead of barging in here looking like the orchard’s on fire.”
A shaky laugh slips out of him. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I peck his cheek before letting go. “We’ll handle your dad.”
Even if the idea of sitting across from the man who thinks I’m gambling with his son’s future makes my pulse pound in my ears.
For Ashton, I’d walk into that fire with my head held high.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror for what feels like the hundredth time.
My face looks bare and strange without its usual piercings. Ashton insisted taking them out would “just make things easier,” as ifI’m some giant, bitter pill his dad has to swallow. My usual dark, vintage layers have been swapped for a blue button-up—the only shirt in my closet that has an actual collar.
Christ. I don’t even recognize myself.
I guess that’s the point.
I drag in a slow breath, step out of my van, and climb the front steps of Ashton’s childhood home—a sprawling farmhouse with a wraparound porch, white shutters, and flowerbeds bursting with late-summer color. The place looks like it belongs on a postcard.
My scuffed combat boots thud against the porch, the wood creaking faintly under my weight. I wipe my palms on my jeans, then lift a hand and knock.
Footsteps shuffle on the other side of the door. A lock clicks. The door swings open.
A woman stands there, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s short, with blond hair cut just above her shoulders—the same shade as Ashton’s. A billowy yellow sundress drapes over her full figure, soft and bright against the farmhouse backdrop. She looks tired, like the day’s been long, but her eyes are warm and kind.
