Even in the dark, I don’t miss the way his cheeks darken as we cross the yard.
The group barely notices our return. Phoebe’s arguing with Luke about who burned the last batch of marshmallows, and someone’s playing music too loud from a portable speaker. I guess out here in the sticks, this is what constitutes a party. It’s very different from the ones I used to throw back in Chicago, but it’s a welcomed change.
I head straight for the case of drinks I brought with me and pluck out a lukewarm amber bottle. I hold it out to Ashton with an encouraging smile, unable to ignore the way my pulse picks up when his eyes meet mine.
“I’ve been working on a cider recipe. You should try it.” I lower my voice before adding, “It’s sweet—like you.”
His eyes widen, his mouth falling open. “I—um—”
Whatever response he was about to give seems to evaporate. Instead, he quickly snatches the bottle from my hand.
I lift my beer toward him with a playful wink. “Cheers.”
A faint flush creeps across his cheeks as he clinks his bottle against mine.
I circle back to my folding chair, sinking into it with a creak. The fire hits me immediately—way hotter now that I’m sitting closer—and within seconds, sweat beads at the back of my neck. I tug at the collar of my flannel before finally shrugging it off, draping the soft fabric over the back of the chair. That leaves me in just a black tank top, the firelight warming my skin.
When I glance up, I catch Ashton staring.
His eyes go wide the moment he realizes he’s been caught, and he snaps his head away so fast I almost laugh. The tips of his ears glow in the firelight. And as he takes a tentative sip of cider, his plush lips brushing the rim, all I can think about is how badly I want him.
Glass clinks together as I slide bottles beneath the nozzles, filling them to the brim with a fresh batch of IPA. The pungent scent of hops blends with a sharp hint of citrus, drifting through the warm, humid air of the brewhouse. I fall into an easy rhythm—fill, cap, repeat—my head instinctively bobbing to the heavy bass pulsing through my earbuds.
“Hey! Troy!”
Imani’s voice cuts through the music, echoing off steel tanks as she strides in from the taproom. She pushes a stray curl behind her ear, her pink-painted lips pressed tight.
I tug out my earbuds, step back from the bottling machine, and hit the switch. The line whines to a stop, bottles settling with a hiss. “What’s up?”
“There’s someone here asking for you.”
My brows lift. “Who?”
She leans against a tank, crossing her arms. “Ashton Tremblay.”
I blink. For a second I think I misheard her over the machines. “Ashton?” My voice comes out shakier than I intend. “Yeah, I know him. Do you?”
Imani gives me a look like I’ve just asked if water is wet. “Uh, yeah. Of course I do. Everyone in Claremont Shores knows the Tremblay family. Mark Tremblay’s got, like, half a dozen kids running around town.” She huffs a laugh. “They’re kind of a big deal.”
Yeah. I’ve gotten that impression.
Driving out to his party, I passed his family’s orchard—sign after sign leading me toward a sprawling estate of rolling hills and rows of blooming trees as far as the eye could see. It’s massive.
I wipe my hands on a towel, trying to steady the stupid thrum in my chest. “Where is he?”
Imani jerks her thumb toward the front. “Waiting in the taproom. Want me to tell him you’re busy?”
“No,” I say quickly, rolling down my sleeves. “I’ll go to him.”
I wipe my palms on the towel one last time and push through the brewhouse door into the taproom. The shift from humid warmth to cool, oak-scented air hits instantly. Late afternoon light filters through the front windows, casting amber stripes across polished bartops.
Ashton stands dead center in the room. His shoulders are stiff, his jaw tight, and his eyes keep dancing around the room like he’s not sure where to look.
What really gets me, though, is the flannel shirt he’s holding—myflannel—folded so perfectly it looks like it came straight from a store display. He’s clutching it with both arms, cradling it against his chest.
“Hey,” he says quickly. “Sorry for just… showing up at your work. I, uh—I didn’t have your number.” He lifts the neatly folded flannel between us. “You left this at the party.”
I can’t help the grin tugging at my mouth as I walk up to him. “Guess I did.” I reach out, brushing his knuckles as I take the shirt from him. “Thanks for bringing it back.”
