A shaky laugh blows past my lips. “Yeah,” I agree, cupping his face gently. “We do.”
I’m so happy I could burst, my heart thudding in my chest so hard it almost hurts. For the past year, I didn’t think it was even possible for someone to want me like this. I thought I’d had my oneshot at love, and I’d ruined it—let it slip through my fingers by not being good enough for her.
And then there’s Ashton. The way he looks at me makes hope bloom in places I thought were dead for good. He makes me feel like maybe I’m not a total fuckup after all. Like maybe all the heartache, nights spent sobbing into my pillow, questioning my worth and blaming myself, was supposed to lead me here. Tohim.
I close the distance between us and press my lips to his, slow and intentional. He sighs contentedly into the kiss, his rough hands anchored to my waist.
Somewhere deep inside me, something dangerous is brewing. I can feel it fermenting under the surface, pressure building and threatening to blow the lid clean off if I’m not careful. If I let it spill too fast, too strong, it’ll send Ashton running.
A voice that sounds an awful lot like Mel echoes through my head.
You’re too much, Troy.
Too intense.
You suffocated me.
The words still sting, coiled tight around my heart like barbed wire. For now, I’ll keep the intensity corked tight, sealed and aging in the dark where it can’t hurt anyone. Where it can’t scare him off.
It’s safer that way.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ashton
Mygriptightensonthe steering wheel as I weave through traffic down Lakeshore Avenue, heat shimmering off the pavement in visible waves. Tourists spill over sidewalks in flip-flops and sunburns, coolers slung over their shoulders as they stream toward the beach, which is already a dense mosaic of umbrellas and bodies. The air smells like sunscreen and hot asphalt, and the cab feels stuffy despite the windows being cracked. I wipe my palm against my jeans and try not to think about how badly I want this day to go right.
When Black Cat Brewery finally comes into view, my heart gives a sharp, startled kick. The parking lot is full. Completely. Cars line the gravel shoulder and spill into the side street, and for a moment I just stare, rolling past the entrance at a crawl.
Troy’s newly hired bartender, Shane, went all in on social media this week, posting cider photos and countdowns and cheeky captions neither Troy nor I would’ve known how to write. I’d braced myself for a slow trickle of curious customers—not a complete madhouse. I let myself hope, just a little, that it means today’s cider release is actually a success.
Unless, of course, the brewery is full of disgruntled customers demanding refunds and cursing my family’s name.
I stare at the packed building a second too long, long enough for the car behind me to honk. I blink and hit the gas, pulling away as my thoughts start to spiral. What if people tried it and hated it? What if the locals think it’s sacrilege—our family’s orchard, generations deep, teaming up with the town’s newest bad boy brewer?
By the time I find a parking spot three streets away, my nerves are buzzing beneath my skin. I cut the engine and sit there for a beat, palms slick against the wheel, chest tight. There’s no turning back now. Whatever happens, Troy and I will face it head-on, together.
I draw in a steadying breath and shove the door open. Dry summer heat wraps around my shoulders, sticking to the back of my neck as I pace toward the brewery.
Shock rattles through me when I see the line at the entrance, people queued up to be seated in the taproom. I blink a few times, half expecting this to be a mirage conjured by the heat. Inside, countless pint glasses are filled with our cider, the unmistakable pink-tinged liquid catching the industrial lights.
The taphouse buzzes with energy. Baskets of fried food crowd the polished wooden tables, the savory aroma of pretzels and fries weaving through the air. The tall ceilings carry every conversation, so loud that individual words blur together, merging into a constant, vibrant hum.
“Ash!”
I spin toward the bar. Troy is waving, a wide grin splitting his face, and my chest tightens.
He got a haircut a few days ago. The sides are shaved down, his fringe trimmed so it no longer covers his eyes. He’s wearing a black graphic T-shirt with a band logo I don’t recognize, decorating his chest with skulls and gothic lettering. Acid-washed jeans hug his thick thighs and butt in all the right places, practically bursting at the stitches.
My boyfriend is a work of art.
Boyfriend.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the word. I’m happier than I’ve ever been—and somehow more terrified too. Troy understands me in a way no one else ever has. He sees every flaw, every rough edge, and still chooses me.
And now he’s looking at me with those soft brown eyes, his tongue sweeping slowly across his lower lip, nudging the metal ring there in a way that’s unmistakably deliberate.
It takes every ounce of self-control to stop myself from bolting across the room and kissing him.
