Pain flares the second I grab one of the broken pieces. I hiss and jerk my hand back, blood trickling from a deep gash across my thumb.
Shane quickly grabs a towel and presses it into my hand. “You alright, man?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, wrapping the rag around the cut. “Should’ve used a broom. Just being an idiot.”
“Go take care of that,” he says easily, nodding toward the back. “I’ve got it handled out here.”
I hesitate, brows raised. “You sure?”
“Of course, boss.”
I manage a weak smile and head for the kitchen, the noise of the taproom fading behind me as I press the towel tighter around the wound. My shoulder shoves the double doors open, and I’m immediately hit with the savory haze of grease and salt—deep-fried bar food mingling with the sharp, comforting bite of Imani’s specialty beer cheese soup.
Imani’s at the stove, a stained apron tied around her waist, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. The moment she spots me, her expression hardens.
“Troy,” she says, already moving toward me. “What the hell did you do?”
“Broke a glass.” I shrug. “It’s not that deep.”
I step toward the first-aid kit on the shelf, but Imani swats my hand away and points to a nearby stool.
“I got it,” she insists. “Sit down.”
I know better than to argue with her. With a tired sigh, I drop onto the chair and lift my hand, blood already soaked through the cotton rag. Imani clicks her tongue with disapproval as she opens the first-aid kit, rummaging through the chaotic mix of loose bandages and half-used ointments.
She crouches in front of me, cradling my hand in hers. Her nails are painted the same electric blue as her lipstick. Carefully, she unwraps my thumb and winces.
“Jesus, Troy,” she says through clenched teeth. “What were you thinking?”
My jaw tightens. “I wasn’t.”
“No kidding.” She tears open an antiseptic wipe and drags it across the cut. The sting is sharp, and I bite back a hiss.
Her brown eyes flick up to mine, filled with curiosity and a hint of suspicion. “What’s going on with you lately?” she asks. “You’ve been distracted.”
Shit. Has it really been that obvious? I’ve done everything I can to shove thoughts of Ashton down, to keep them from interfering with my work. I’ve flirted harmlessly with customers at the taproom, mindlessly swiped through dating apps—but none of it erases the memory of his mouth on mine.
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, dropping my gaze to the scuffed tile floor.
“Troy,” she says, tilting her head, doubt sharpening her voice. “Does this have anything to do with Ashton Tremblay?”
I let out a low, humorless breath. “Of course not. What makes you think that?”
She tapes a strip of gauze around my thumb, firm but careful. “You haven’t been yourself since you and Ashton became business partners.”
I swallow. “I’m just… tired. You know how it is.”
A frown tugs at her blue-painted lips. “Did something happen between the two of you?”
I tip my head back, staring at the stained ceiling as Ashton floods my thoughts. I’ve kissed plenty of people since Mel and I split, but none of them made me feel sparks like he did. Just one taste of him, and now I’m addicted.
I drag in a breath. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
Imani’s hands still. She reaches up, grips my chin, and angles my face back down, her gaze burning into mine. “You didn’t mean forwhatto happen?”
My throat tightens. “I kissed him.”
Imani blinks once. Then twice. “You kissed…Ashton Tremblay?”
