Not because Phoebe isn’t great.
It’s because sheis.
On paper, she’s perfect for me. We come from the same town, the same kind of families. She understands the farm, the long hours, the way harvest season consumes my whole life. She would fit beside me so easily.
“Sorry,” I say after a beat, squeezing her hand. “I’ve been a shitty friend lately, haven’t I?”
She shrugs. “Maybe. But you’re still better than most guys in this shithole town.”
“Wow.” I snort. “The bar is literally on the ground, Phoebs.”
Phoebe leans against the bar, swirling the straw in her cocktail, a slow, knowing smile tugging at her mouth. “Well,” she says, tilting her head toward me, “if you ever want to make it up to me…” Her voice dips just enough to make her meaning clear. “You know where to find me.”
Before I can respond, she leans in and kisses me.
She tastes like cherry ChapStick, sweet and tangy. I’ve always liked that about her. No sticky gloss, no heavy lipstick. Nothing overwhelming. Kissing Phoebe has always been easy. Familiar. Like slipping into a well-worn jacket or hugging an old friend.
“Text me,” she says when she pulls back, squeezing my arm. Her eyes search mine a beat longer than usual. “You look like you need a stress reliever. Or at least a friend to talk to.”
She can read me like a book.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “I will.”
She gives me one last peck on the cheek before she slips back into her group of friends, curls bouncing as she walks away.
I watch her go for a moment before turning back to my beer, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my neck—and the sudden, inexplicable heaviness in my chest at the thought of hooking up with her.
I probably should. It’s not exactly healthy to stay this wound up. Sex with Phoebe has always been my pressure valve, a means to relieve stress and pent-up energy. She’s simple, predictable, and safe.
So why isn’t she enough for me?
Luke appears in front of me a second later, wiping down the counter with an exaggerated smirk. He wiggles his eyebrows. “So,” he drawls, “you gonna tap that tonight, or what?”
I fix him with a harsh glare. “Knock it off. It’s none of your damn business.”
He scoffs, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “Relax, man. I’m just saying… you’ve done nothing but work the past few months. You need to loosen up.”
I shake my head firmly, staring down at my beer. “I’m fine, Luke. Just busy. Everything with this upcoming harvest needs to be perfect.”
He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because if the summer tourists don’t get their cherries in a timely manner, the world will explode.”
My grip tightens around my beer. “Fuck off.”
Luke raises his hands in surrender as the back door swings open, letting in a rush of cool nighttime air. My gaze shifts toward the figure stepping inside, pushing a trolley stacked high with silver kegs. Despite living in Claremont Shores my entire life, I don’t recognize the man. He must be new in town.
He’s not particularly tall, but he’s broad through the shoulders, built solid and strong. His hair is black and cut into a shaggy mullet, framing a sharp jaw dusted with a short, neatly trimmed beard. Black gauge earrings glint under the bar lights, silver rings decorating his bottom lip, eyebrow, and nose.
A red flannel shirt clings to his frame, sculpting over thick muscles, the sleeves rolled to reveal forearms marked with ink. A black snake tattoo coils up the side of his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
As he hefts the kegs behind the bar, his arms flex easily with the movement. His gaze flickers to me for the briefest second before returning to Luke.
“Hey, dude!” Luke greets with a beaming smile, fist-bumping him. “How’s it going?”
The man shrugs. “Fine. You?”
“I’m great, man!” Luke tips his head toward me. “Have you met my big bro, Ashton?”
The man turns to me fully, scanning up my body in a slow sweep that makes my skin feel too tight.
