“Hey,” I reply, my hand tightening on the doorframe. “Thanks for coming out this late.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t mind. I was working in the orchard all day anyway.”
I nod and step aside. “Well, come in.”
The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us into the quiet. The space feels smaller with him here, the air heavier. Ashton trails behind me, hands tucked into his pockets, boots scuffing softly against the concrete as I lead him toward the bar.
“The trial batch has been conditioning for a couple of weeks now,” I say, tapping the rubber stopper. “Carbonation should be just about perfect. Hopefully.”
Ashton shifts his weight, eyes fixed on the bottle. “I… don’t really know what any of that means.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “That’s okay. That’s why I’m the brewing master, not you. You’re the cherry expert.”
I grab two small tasting glasses and brace the jug between my forearms, twisting the stopper loose. It resists for a beat before giving way with a soft pop. A quiet grunt slips out of me with the effort.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ashton’s reaction.
His throat bobs once, slow and shaky, before he smooths his expression into something neutral. He stares a little too hard at the bartop.
I pretend not to notice as I pour the cider.
“Smells like cherries,” he says as I hand him a glass.
For a split second, our fingers brush.
He jerks back like it burns, the vein in his temple jumping. He takes a deliberate step away, gaze fixed on the cider, fingers tight around the glass.
Jesus. He’s acting like a scared puppy. Does he think I’m going to try to kiss him again after he’s made it clear he doesn’t want me?Maybe he was lying about being okay with my bisexuality. Maybe he’s a homophobic prick, like the majority of this town.
I clear my throat, ignoring the sting of it. “Well,” I say, lifting my glass. “Cheers.”
He hesitates, then clinks his glass against mine with a soft, careful tap. We both bring the cider to our mouths. For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other over the rims of our glasses, lips parted.
When the first sip hits my tongue, my stomach drops.
Oh no.
It’s wrong immediately—too dry and bitter in a way that curls at the back of my mouth, with a sour edge that’s almost rancid. There’s no balance, no sweetness to soften it. Just sharp, unforgiving acid.
Across from me, Ashton’s face goes blank. Then his brows knit together. His lips purse.
“Oh—” he starts.
Hegags.
Then he lunges forward, spitting the cider straight onto the concrete floor. It sprays in a messy arc, droplets splattering across my ankles and boots.
“Oh my god,” he chokes, coughing into his sleeve. “That’s—Jesus—”
I burst out laughing, the sound ripping through the tension, and a second later I’m spitting my own mouthful onto the floor beside his.
“Yeah,” I wheeze, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “That’s… that’s awful.”
Ashton stares at the puddle between us, then up at me. He starts laughing too—real, helpless laughter, shoulders shaking as he drags a hand down his face. I’ve missed his smile, the way his dimples crease his cheeks, eyes crinkling. It’s a beautiful sight.
I bark another laugh. “Hey, trial batch,” I defend weakly. “That’s what trials are for. Just gotta adjust the formula.”
Ashton’s laughter tapers off. “Shit,” he says, glancing at my wet boots coated in cider. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meanto—”
