My newly hired chef, Imani, perches behind the prep table, a stained apron tied snugly around her waist. Her warm brown skin is traced with a patchwork of tattoos, scattered across her arms like the pages of a doodle notebook. She’s covered her coily black hair with a pink bandana to keep it out of her eyes while she works. Every day she wears a different shade of bold lipstick—today, it’s a vivid purple.
She glances up when I step inside. “Finally fix that leak?”
“Mhm.” I peer over her shoulder. “What’s that?”
“Pretzel bites,” she says, grabbing one of the golden, doughy pieces. She dips it into a ramekin of molten beer cheese, coating it generously before lifting it toward my mouth.
Being Imani’s taste tester might be my true calling. After a month of eating her delicious fried food, I have a new notch in my belt to prove it.
I take a bite, chewing slowly as the warm salt and creamy cheese melt together on my tongue. Perfect texture—soft in the middle, crisp around the edges.
“Does it get your stamp of approval?” Imani asks, hands clasped together in a prayer.
I nod, already reaching for another. “Absolutely. Add it to the menu.”
She smiles triumphantly and gives herself a pat on the back.
“Alright,” I say, brushing pretzel crumbs off my hands, “I’m gonna head out and make a few deliveries. Think you can hold down the fort for a couple hours?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“Thanks.” I grab my keys off the counter.
I slip out the back door and cross the small lot to my white delivery van with tinted windows—the kind that makes me look like a serial killer or kidnapper. Every time I see it, I cringe. It’s functional, sure, but cruising it around doesn’t exactly help my reputation as the town’s mysterious newcomer.
I slide the door open to double-check the kegs are strapped in tight. The metal glints in the sunlight, stacked neatly. After tightening the strap one last time, I slide into the driver’s seat and head across town to Old Harbor Tavern.
When I reached out to the tavern last month and offered them a discount for partnering with a local business, I half expected them to ignore me. Instead, they took a chance on me. And now my beer’s selling fast enough they’re doubling their weekly shipment.
Not bad for a guy who rolled into Claremont Shores knowing no one.
The drive through town is beautiful tonight, the evening sun sinking low and smearing the sky with streaks of pink and orange. Brick storefronts line the main road, their windows glowing under streetlamps that cast a yellow sheen across the cracked asphalt. Between the buildings, I catch glimpses of rolling waves and pristine white sand, like something out of a postcard.
My real estate agent swore Claremont Shores is packed with tourists in the summer. In a few weeks, I bet the sidewalks will be crammed with sunburned children and college kids with damp swimsuits beneath their clothes. But for now, it’s quiet and unhurried—exactly what I needed after everything that went down back home.
After parking the van behind the tavern, I load the kegs onto a trolley and wheel them to the back door. I shove it open with my shoulder and wrestle the wheels over the threshold, muttering a curse under my breath. Straightening, I pivot toward the bar and head for the bartender, Luke.
As I approach, the place is loud enough that nobody immediately looks my way—except for one guy sitting at the bar with a beer in hand.
And holy hell.
Broad shoulders fill out a worn T-shirt, the kind that clings in exactly the right places. His sandy hair falls in careless waves in front of piercing green eyes, curling slightly where it brushes his neck. He stares at me with an unreadable expression, his thick brows raised.
“Hey, dude!” Luke beams at me over the bar, pulling me back to reality. He leans in to fist-bump me. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I say with a shrug. “You?”
“I’m great, man!” Luke jerks his head toward the man at the bar. “Have you met my big bro, Ashton?”
Brother. Yeah, that tracks. They share the same light hair, green eyes, and sharp jawlines. But where Luke looks like he was sculpted in a gym—every muscle deliberate—Ashton is rougher around the edges, a little more untamed, like he was carved by labor instead of weights.
My gaze drags down his body, slowly sweeping over chiseled forearms, thick thighs trapped in tight denim, and lips pink from the cold pint glass he’s just lowered. When our eyes meet again, something tightens low in my stomach.
“No,” I say, sticking out my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Troy.”
He grips my hand firmly, his palm warm and calloused, and for a stupid half second, I forget how to breathe. Up close, those green eyes of his are mystifying.
“Uh… so, you work for Black Cat Brewery?” he asks, voice deep and gravelly.
