I draw his arm back with mine. “Now—don’t overthink it.”
The dart flies through the air and sinks into the board, off-center, but still a respectable shot.
Ashton blinks, then lets out a startled laugh. “I did it!”
A smile curves my mouth as I stay close to him longer than necessary, acutely aware of the warmth and tension where our bodies meet. “Told you,” I say quietly. “You just needed a little help.”
He steps back at last, clearing his throat, but a small, shy smile lingers. “Thanks.”
I collect the darts and twirl one between my fingers, noticing the way his eyes follow the movement before he catches himself. He drains the rest of his beer, cheeks still flushed, and sets the empty glass aside.
I lean back against the wall, arms crossing over my chest, watching him for a moment before clearing my throat. “So,” I say lightly, “how about a real game, with stakes?”
He hesitates, then gives a timid nod. “Uh, sure. What are the stakes?”
“If you win,” I say, grinning, “I’ll give you a free round at my taproom.”
He bites his bottom lip. “And if you win?”
I hum thoughtfully, lifting the dart and lining up my shot. “Oh,” I say, glancing back at him with a smirk, “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
His eyes widen, and he ducks his head to hide his blush.
I snicker under my breath and let the dart fly.
An hour later, I’m still riding the high of my victory as I walk Ashton out to his truck. The night air has a sharp bite as we cross the dimly lit parking lot behind the bar. Ashton folds his arms over his chest, boots thudding softly against the pavement.
Claremont Shores is still and quiet, the shops all closed down for the evening. Streetlamps spill a dull yellow glow across the empty road, and somewhere in the distance, the lake laps gently against the shore like the town’s heartbeat—a steady, familiar rhythm.
Ashton stops at the driver’s-side door and turns to face me.
“Thanks for tonight,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It, uh… it was fun. I haven’t had that much fun in a while, honestly.”
A proud smile tugs at my mouth. “You work too hard, Ashton.”
He shrugs, sheepish. “Yeah, probably.”
“I get it, though,” I say quietly. “I lose myself in work sometimes too.”
My mind flickers back to the months after Mel and I split—how I buried myself in starting the brewery, desperate for something to focus on, something solid to hold on to while everything else crumbled. I wonder if Ashton does the same thing. If long days and aching muscles are his way of numbing something he doesn’t want to face.
“I’ll see you around, Troy,” he says, fingers curling around the door handle.
I shake my head. “Uh-uh. You owe me something,” I remind him. “I won, remember?”
He looks down at me, jaw twitching. “What did you have in mind?”
For half a second, I consider asking for something bold—a kiss, maybe—but I already know that would end in rejection. Instead, my attention drifts to the bed of his truck, where crates of cherries sit stacked high, their red skins glowing under the moonlight. I pat the cool metal of the tailgate.
“I’ll take a pint of your cherries,” I say, nodding toward them. “I want to see what all the hype’s about.”
Ashton searches my face, maybe to see if I’m joking, but then offers a small smile. “Alright.”
He circles to the back of the truck and pulls a small woven basket from one of the crates, filled to the brim with cherries. When he hands it to me, I cradle it in my arms.
“Enjoy them,” he says. “You won them fair and square. I hope they live up to your expectations.”
“They will,” I reply easily. “You never fail to impress me, Ashton Tremblay.”
