I turn instinctively toward the narrow hallway that leads to the mudroom.
Ashton steps inside first, kicking dirt from the bottoms of his boots before toeing them off by the door. His hair is wind-tousled,cheeks flushed from the late-summer heat, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s a smudge of grease along his forearm.
His father walks in behind him. He’s tall—just as tall as Ashton—but much broader. His shoulders stretch the fabric of his white T-shirt, thick arms distressed by age and labor. A round belly presses against the buttons, hanging slightly over his belt. His thinning hair is tucked beneath a baseball cap, silver with a whisper of dwindling blond.
They move down the hallway toward me. Ashton glances up and spots me. Something flickers across his face—relief, maybe—but it’s gone just as quickly as his father steps fully into view.
Cold gray eyes lock onto mine.
They’re nothing like Ashton’s. No warmth. No sunlight. Just steel.
Ashton must get his from Debbie.
I step forward before my nerves can root me to the floor. I straighten my posture, square my shoulders, and extend my hand.
“Mr. Tremblay,” I say evenly. “I’m Troy Fischer. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
His gaze drags over me, slow and assessing, before he takes my hand. His grip is firm—too firm. Thick fingers wrap around mine and squeeze hard, the pressure deliberate, bordering on painful. Cold skin. Calloused palm. It feels less like a greeting and more like a test.
I don’t flinch.
“Mark,” he says flatly.
His fingers tighten once more, just enough to make the point clear.
I hold his gaze and match the pressure, refusing to be the first one to look away.
After a beat too long, he releases me.
Behind him, Ashton hovers at the edge of the room. He twists his fingers together, knuckles cracking softly, and gnaws at the inside of his cheek—an anxious habit I’ve come to recognize.
“Honey?” Debbie calls out, poking her head around the corner. “Dinner’s ready.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I follow Ashton and Mark to the dining room. The cool air smells like garlic and simmered tomatoes, the large ceiling fan spinning around and wafting the scents. A bowl of spaghetti sits in the center of the table, steam curling toward the overhead light. A basket of sliced bread rests at the end of the table, next to a bowl of parmesan cheese.
Ashton and I take the side of the table closest to the windows. His parents sit across from us.
Debbie forces a bright smile as she settles into her seat. “I hope you like spaghetti, Troy,” she says, reaching for the Parmesan. She spoons an excessive amount over her plate, snowy flakes piling high. “It’s Ashton’s favorite. Has been since he was little.”
“It smells great,” I say. And it does.
For a moment, the room is filled with the sounds of passing plates, clinking silverware, and chairs scraping against the hardwood floor as we get settled.
Debbie fills the silence with gentle questions—how I’m settling into Claremont Shores, how the drive was, how business has been. Her voice is warm but strained, like she’s stretching it over something painful.
“It’s been great,” I say. “Busier than we expected, honestly.”
“That’s good,” she replies quickly. “Very good.”
For a few minutes, the rhythm almost feels normal. Forks twirl pasta. Ashton’s knee presses lightly against mine under the table, a steady point of contact.
Then—
“How long have you been in the brewing business?”
Mark doesn’t look at me when he asks the question. He’s staring down at his plate, stabbing a forkful of spaghetti.
I pause, dabbing my mouth with my napkin. “Started home brewing a few years back. This is my first time owning my own place.”
