“I’m the owner.”
His eyebrows lift. “Oh. Cool.” He glances down at his glass, absently swirling the amber liquid. “I like your beer. Hard to find good local brews around here.”
Pride warms my chest. “Thanks. You should come check out our taproom sometime. We’re rolling out a food menu next week.”
His tongue sweeps slowly across his top teeth, and for one reckless heartbeat, I imagine that tongue against mine, tangled in a heated kiss.
“Yeah,” he replies, noncommittal. “Maybe I’ll swing by.”
Christ. I could stare at his gorgeous face all day.
Instead, I peel my gaze away and focus on the job I’m supposed to be doing. I stack the kegs behind the bar, give Luke a polite nod, and grab the handles of the trolley.
“See you next week.”
The back door swings shut behind me, muffling the bar’s chatter. Cool night air hits my face, sharp enough to snap me back to reality. I shove the empty trolley into the van, climb inside, and shut the door.
Cranking the key, I listen to the engine humming to life and the distant crash of waves against the pier. I start to pull out of the alley but stop halfway, hands lingering on the steering wheel.
For a moment, I stare through the windshield at nothing.
I haven’t felt that—whatever the hell that was—in a long time. Not since the divorce last year. Not since everything went sideways and I promised myself I’d keep things simple. No attachments. Just easy, surface-level, emotionless hookups.
But none of that ever made my pulse skip. None of it made my stomach twist in a bright, foolish way. None of it felt likethis.
When I chose to move here, I accepted I’d have to conceal a part of myself. Being an openly bisexual business owner isn’t exactly the fast track to success in a town like this. It’s not that I’d lie if someone asked me outright. I’ve never been ashamed of who I am.
Back in Chicago, I kissed whoever I wanted in crowded bars without a second thought. Here, I keep my hands to myself. Keep my head down.
The truth is, Ashton is exactly the kind of man I can’t afford to want. Pursuing him would be downright reckless.
But then again… I’ve always had a thing for danger.
By the time I drag myself up the narrow stairwell to my apartment, every muscle in my body is coiled tight, sweat clinging to my flannel shirt. Tucked beneath my arm, a take-out box radiates warmth, the savory smell of garlic seeping through the Styrofoam. The second I push the door open, a sleek black shape darts toward me.
“Hey, Cryptid,” I say, nudging the door shut with my heel.
As I toe off my boots, my cat weaves between my ankles with a raspy little chirp. He flicks his tail against my calf, clearly offended that I dared leave him alone for eight hours. I crouch to scratch behind his ears, and he leans into my hand with loud purring—the only welcome-home greeting I can always count on these days.
Cryptid is definitely the only good thing I walked away with from Melanie.
I straighten with a groan and cross the small space. My apartment isn’t much—a galley kitchen, a cramped living room, and a bedroom barely wide enough for a queen mattress—but after draining my life savings for the brewery’s down payment, it’s all I can afford.
I set the take-out box on the counter and flip it open. Imani insisted I take home a batch of chicken wings she’s been experimenting with for the taproom menu. I’m thankful I hired her. If it were up to me, dinner would be cereal or frozen pizza. Melanie always handled the cooking, so I never had to learn.
Cryptid hops onto a barstool, his green eyes trained on my fingers as they lift a wing to my mouth.
“No. This ismydinner,” I scold, biting off a chunk of meat. “I’ll feed you afterwards.”
He trills in protest—a dramatic, accusatory chirp.
I sigh. “Glutton.”
Not that I can blame him. He used to be a stray, and it shows. When Melanie found him, he was ripping into someone’s leftover burrito in the parking lot of our first shared apartment. We werebroke and absolutely did not need another mouth to feed. But she scooped him up anyway and brought him inside.
I remember the way he looked at me: ribs showing beneath patchy fur, little body trembling, face still somehow stupidly adorable. And that was it. I couldn’t say no.
That was over nine years ago. The thought makes my stomach sink with dread.
