Troy stills behind me. When I risk a glance over my shoulder, his expression has shifted into something guarded. His fingers flex athis sides, restless, like he doesn’t know what to do with them when they’re not touching me.
He takes a small step back, putting space between us.
“I was being professional,” he says evenly. “Like you asked me to.”
My jaw tightens as I refocus my attention on the cherries, watching the juice cascade into the bucket.
“I wasn’t trying to do anything,” he adds, his voice tight and defensive. “I was just helping.”
My throat feels dry. I swallow hard, but nothing comes out. No apology. No explanation. Just the steady churn of the fruit smasher filling the silence.
Because what am I supposed to say?
Sorry I can’t think straight when you’re that close?
Sorry I can’t trust myself to resist you?
Troy exhales through his nose, the sound quiet but tired. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving faint streaks of cherry juice at his temple.
“Alright,” he grumbles. He walks to the counter and grabs his pack of cigarettes. “Gonna step out for a smoke.”
The back door creaks open, letting in a slash of cool air and the distant scent of rain-soaked earth. For a split second, I think he might say something else, but he doesn’t. The door slams shut behind him with a solid thud, leaving me alone in the quiet.
I keep turning the handle long after the pulp runs dry, trying to drown out the tight, twisting pain in my chest. Pushing him away didn’t make the ache disappear. It’s still there—sharp and insistent, pulsing beneath my rib cage. The only time it ever dulled was when his lips were on mine, when the world narrowed to his warmth and the feeling of his body pressed against me.
What would it be like to feel that free all the time?
Maybe that’s what scares me most—not wanting Troy, but how easily he makes me imagine a life that’s mine. One where I don’t have to carry my family’s dreams like a burden strapped to my back. Onewhere I get to choose what happiness looks like, even if it strays from the plan that was carved out for me.
But wanting him would mean letting go of the rules I’ve lived by for my entire life. It would mean choosing myself, and truthfully, I don’t know if I’m brave enough for that.
No matter how badly it hurts, I can’t afford to want him.
Chapter Sixteen
Troy
Thebreweryfeelsdifferentafter hours. It’s too big and quiet in the absence of customers. Moonlight leaks through the half-closed blinds, painting the room in pale stripes of silver. The steady hum of the coolers vibrates through the concrete floors, a low, mechanical pulse that does nothing to soothe the tension itching under my skin.
I check my phone for the third time in five minutes. No new messages.
Ashton’s last text is still pulled up on the screen, painfully polite.
Ashton:Sounds good. See you soon.
It’s efficient. Professional. Exactly what I’ve grown to expect from him.
Still, it stings.
I flip the phone face down on the bar and turn back to the cider. The glass jug is slick with condensation, cold against my palms as I lift it. Droplets slide lazily down the sides, catching the light. Inside, the cider glows a soft red beneath the taproom lights, bubbles drifting upward in slow streams.
A minute later, there’s a soft, timid knock at the door.
I take a few deep breaths, giving myself a few seconds to compose myself, then cross the taproom and pull the door open.
Ashton stands there with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders squared. The nearby streetlamps catch dampstrands of blond hair curling at his temples, his skin faintly flushed. His gaze flicks to mine, green eyes blinking quickly.
“Hey,” he says, voice rigid and practiced.
