A low grunt rumbles from his chest. “So,” he says, leaning back slightly. “You’re by no means an expert.”
I feel Ashton stiffen beside me.
“With all due respect,” I say carefully, “our cider’s been doing really well so far. We sold out of our first batch, and demand’s been strong since. We’re expanding production next month.”
Mark studies my face. The room goes quiet except for the scrape of silverware against ceramic and the soft, cautious sounds of chewing.
He folds his hands on the table. “I just want to make sure my son isn’t being taken advantage of,” he says. “He’s investing quite a lot of money in this. He’s still young. Naive.”
Heat flares in my chest. Beneath the table, I ball my fists so tight the silver rings dig into my skin, sharp edges biting into bone.
I inhale slowly, forcing the anger down before it can boil over. “Ashton is an adult,” I say, keeping my tone level. “He’s more than capable of making his own decisions.”
Hidden out of sight, Ashton’s hand finds my thigh. His fingers squeeze, firm and pleading.
I glance at him. His eyes are wide, silently begging me not to escalate this.
“Ashton’s always had all kinds of wild ideas,” Mark continues, waving a dismissive hand through the air. “Turning the orchard into a wedding venue. U-pick stations. All of it.” He gives a short, humorless laugh. “He’s ambitious—I’ll give him that—but ambition isn’t the same thing as responsibility. I’m afraid this investment with your brewery is just another far-fetched daydream. And when it falls apart, it’ll come back to bite him.”
Rage burns hot and ravenous behind my ribs. My chair legs scrape loudly against the hardwood as I push back without meaning to. Before I can stop myself, I’m leaning forward, finger pointed across the table, my hand trembling.
“Listen, Mark. This isn’t your orchard anymore,” I snap. “You don’t get to boss Ash around and talk about him like he’s someclueless kid—”
“Troy,” Ashton mutters under his breath, grabbing my forearm. “Stop.”
The pain in his voice hits me like a slap.
I freeze.
For a second, I consider pushing past it—doubling down, saying everything I’ve swallowed since I walked through the door. But Ashton’s grip tightens just slightly, silently pleading.
I drag in a slow breath through my nose. My pulse hammers in my ears. The room feels too small, too warm. I can practically taste the bitterness in the air.
I sink back into my chair.
“You’re right,” I say stiffly, staring at the wood grain of the table instead of at Mark. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it. “That was out of line.”
The apology tastes like blood, but I choke it down.
Mark grunts, low and unimpressed.
Ashton’s foot taps restlessly against the floor, heel thudding in a quick, anxious rhythm. His fingers drum against his thigh in sync, over and over. A sheen of sweat beads along his hairline, catching in the soft light above us. He keeps his eyes fixed on his plate, shoulders pulled tight like he’s bracing for impact.
Guilt pricks at me. I didn’t mean to make this dinner harder for him, but I don’t regret it. It had to be said, and God knows Ashton will never stand up for himself. He bends at every order Mark barks at him.Yes, sir. Of course, Dad. Whatever you think is best.He twists himself into something smaller, quieter, easier to swallow—just to earn a crumb of approval.
Just to chase after the love he was never given.
And it makes my chest ache in a way that’s almost unbearable. He deserves better than this.
Debbie clears her throat gently, the sound soft but deliberate. “So, Troy,” she says with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “what was it like growing up in Chicago?”
“It was nice,” I say, forcing my voice into something neutral. “Cold winters like you’ve got here, but it’s a lot bigger. Chaotic, but in a good way.”
Debbie smiles tightly. “I can imagine.” She hums. “I hear the craft beer scene there is pretty big. It’s no wonder you got into it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I nod politely. “I spent my twenties working at breweries and bars, learning from the experts. My last gig was at a gay bar—”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Ashton’s hand tightens on my thigh, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to border on painful.
