“Brothers?” I press, watching the way his throat works when he swallows. “You have more besides Luke?”
He nods slowly, taking another sip. “Two brothers, two sisters. I’m the oldest.”
My eyebrows lift as I take another drag, smoke blowing from my lips. “Big family, huh?”
He shrugs. “Well, you know… kids are basically just free farm labor.”
“Your family has a farm?”
He finally looks back at me, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Just making conversation,” I say with an innocent tilt of my head, flicking some ash onto the pavement.
“Tremblay Orchards,” he says after a moment. “It’s a cherry farm. I’m the owner now.”
“Ah.” I let my gaze drag deliberately over the breadth of his shoulders and the golden skin peeking beneath his collar. “That explains the muscles and the tan. Manual labor looks good on you.”
His breath catches. He fidgets with the bottle cap in his palm, squeezing it.
“So, do you, um…” He pauses to take a deep breath. “Do you have any siblings?”
My posture hardens on instinct. God, I hate this question. It always opens a can of worms.
“Sort of.” I clear my throat. “Half-siblings. On my dad’s side.”
“How many?”
I pause to count each of them on my fingers. There are a few I’ve never even met. My father isn’t good at much besides being fertile, and he’s left a trail of neglected offspring scattered across Illinois to prove it.
“Like… eight or nine, I think. Some older, some younger.” I shrug. “I’m not close with any of them. They never stuck around with my dad long enough for me to get attached.”
He stares at me for a beat, blinking. “And your mom…?”
My gaze drops to the glowing tip of my cigarette. “Died when I was three. Car accident.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Oh. I’m… sorry.”
I take another drag, rocking on my heels. “It was a long time ago.”
I rub the back of my neck, sweat pooling along my skin. I hate the way he’s looking at me with sympathy. I’ve spent my whole life getting that look.
“So, um… where’d you grow up?” Ashton asks, voice softer now.
I hum, grateful for the subject change. “Chicago.”
His hand tightens around the neck of the bottle. “I bet Chicago’s a lot different than here.”
A laugh bursts out of me, breaking the tension. “That’s an understatement.”
He shifts on his feet, kicking a stray pebble with his boot. “Well, I’m glad you chose to come to Claremont Shores. Your beer is incredible,” he says before taking a long pull from the bottle.
I smile, exhaling a puff of smoke through my teeth. “Thanks. The brewery’s doing well so far. Tonight was definitely a success.”
He nods and swallows hard, shoulders tightening like he’s torn between staying planted beside me or fleeing into the crowd. His gaze skitters toward the passing boats—anywhere but at me—as a faint blush warms his cheeks.
Before I can tease him about it, a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
I turn to see Luke grinning wide, a cardboard tray of nachos overflowing with neon cheese, ground beef, and an absurd amount of jalapeños balanced in his other hand. A backwards ballcap keeps his shaggy golden hair out of his eyes.
