A deep, satisfied moan slips out of me as I lean back against the counter again, rubbing my stomach in slow circles. “Holy shit. That’s incredible.”
Imani slowly lowers her pen. She looks up at me, eyebrow raised. “You know,” she says casually, “if you sound anything like that during sex, I bet Ashton is a very happy man.”
I nearly choke on the last bite. “Imani!”
She bursts out laughing.
My face heats up, and I nudge her with my shoulder. “Shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues, completely unbothered. “That was averyenthusiastic noise.”
“I was appreciating the food!”
“Mhm.”
“It was a culinary noise!”
“Sure it was.”
I groan again and drop my head back against the fridge behind me. “I’m never taste-testing for you again.”
Imani grins and scribbles something into her notebook. “Liar. You love my cooking.”
“Yeah.” I pat my overstuffed stomach miserably. “I really do.”
The kitchen door swings open, the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses spilling inside. Shane sticks his head through the doorway. “Hey, Troy?” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s someone asking for you out front.”
My brain is still operating at half speed from the food coma. “What?”
“Blond guy,” he says.
My chest flutters.
Across the counter, Imani’s head slowly lifts. A smirk spreads across her face. “Oh my god,” she says. “Go get your man.”
I sigh, dragging a hand over my face. “Please stop talking.”
She puckers her neon pink lips at me in an exaggerated air kiss.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I tell Shane, pushing myself off the fridge.
He nods and disappears back into the taproom.
Despite myself, a small smile tugs at my mouth as I head for the door.
I always appreciate when Ashton decides to surprise me at work. Sometimes he stops by under the guise of having a beer, lingering at the bar and chatting with Shane while he waits for me to have a spare minute. Then I’ll drag him into the cleaning closet to steal a quick hug—maybe a few kisses if the taproom isn’t too busy.
I push through the kitchen door and step into the crowded taproom. Intermingled conversations flood my ears, drinks sliding across tabletops, laughter echoing off the walls.
My eyes immediately start scanning the room, looking for him. But I don’t see him anywhere.
Then, my gaze snags on a figure near the front door.
Luke.
Luke Tremblay stands just inside the entrance, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He shifts his weight like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His face is flushed, his blond hair sticking up in different directions like he’s been running his hands through it.
He looks… panicked.
