Something flickers across his face—uncertainty, maybe discomfort—like praise still catches him off guard. He drops his gaze to the keys in his hand, fumbling with them, unable to meet my eyes.
I smile and bump his shoulder gently with mine. “Goodnight, Ashton.”
“Goodnight, Troy.”
I watch him climb into the truck and pull away, the basket of cherries warm in my arms and the echo of his presence lingering long after the taillights disappear down the road.
When I get home, the apartment is far too quiet for my liking. I flip on a Chicago Cubs game, not to watch so much as to fill the silence. I’ve never been much of a baseball guy, but my mom loved the Cubs. Keeping up with the scores feels like keeping a piece of her alive.
I scrub a hand over my face, push off the couch, and drift into the kitchen. Cryptid follows like a shadow, winding between my legs with every step. I open the fridge and grab one of my hard ciders—the latest batch I’ve been obsessing over for weeks.
I twist it open and take a sip.
It’s… fine. Which is exactly the problem.
Every small brewery around here has a “signature” cider, but they all have the same forgettable vaguely sweet flavor. I’ve been trying to figure out how to make mine different, something that actually stands out, but so far my mediocre experiments have left me feeling defeated.
I shut the fridge with a sigh—and freeze.
On the counter sits the carton of cherries Ashton gave me, their red skins gleaming under the harsh kitchen light.
My whirling brain comes to a screeching halt.
Cherry cider.
I stare at the carton, pulse ticking up as the idea unspools—sweet, tart, maybe spiced, definitely bold. Something that catches people off guard in the best way. And in a town like Claremont Shores, where tourists flood the streets in the summer heat, it’s fucking brilliant.
And I know exactly who can help me perfect it.
Ashton’s golden hair looks like a goddamn halo in the evening light, catching the warm rays as they pour through the brewery windows. He’s sitting at one of the hightop tables, looking awkward as ever, rubbing his palms over his thighs like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. His blue T-shirt shows off his biceps a little too well, the worn fabric clinging to his pecs in a way that’s… distracting.
I texted him yesterday asking if he could meet me here. Honestly, I half expected him to say no or demand to know what I wanted, which would’ve been fair. But to my surprise, he agreed without hesitation. Almost like he was looking forward to it.
When I clear my throat, Ashton finally glances up, green eyes wide.
I cross the room and offer my hand. “Hey,” I say, a little breathless. “Thanks for coming.”
He stands automatically, his grip warm and firm. “Uh, yeah. Of course.”
“I really appreciate it,” I say, releasing his hand reluctantly. “I, uh… I actually have a business proposal for you.”
His brows pinch together as he sits back down. “A… business proposal?”
“Yeah.” I slide into the chair across from him, our knees brushing beneath the table. That brief spark of contact that zips straight up my spine. “I want to make a cherry hard cider, and I think Tremblay Orchards would be the perfect partner. Two local businesses teaming up. Your cherries, my brewing. Something that celebrates both of our crafts. I really think we could make something special.”
Ashton goes still, eyes flickering over my face like he’s trying to figure out if I’m joking. Maybe this whole pitch is too forward—too enthusiastic—but subtlety was never my strongsuit.
“Like… a collaboration?” he asks carefully.
“Exactly.” I nod. “We split start-up costs and profits fifty-fifty. A true partnership. We source directly from your orchard. Limited seasonal run to start. If it takes off, we scale.”
His teeth drag over his bottom lip as he looks down at the table, shoulders drawing in slightly. “I don’t know,” he says at last, voice soft.
“You don’t have to give me an answer right now,” I tell him quickly. “Just think about it. It could be great for the orchard. We’d put your logo front and center on the label. Make sure people know exactly where the fruit comes from. It’s good exposure.”
Ashton swallows hard, throat bobbing slowly. “My dad wouldn’t like it. Our family name being tied to alcohol.” He shifts, posture going rigid. “He’s… old-fashioned. Conservative.”
I lift a brow. “But you own the orchard now, right? Not him.”
