Instead, I cross the space in slow, careful strides, taking a moment to settle myself and observe the customers. Several glasses sit empty on tables, bone-dry, which must be a good sign.
When I reach the bar, Troy surprises me with a quick embrace. It’s fleeting, casual—just a side hug that would read as entirely platonic to anyone watching—but it makes my skin buzz. His body is warm and firm against mine, and the faintly masculine scent of him drifts over me: sandalwood, fresh pine, a lingering earthy tinge of hops.
As we pull apart, his hip bumps mine, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“We sold out.”
My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
He laughs, bouncing lightly on his toes like an overexcited kid. “Everyone loves it. I keep telling folks we’ll have another batch ready next week, and honestly… we probably need to start another one even sooner.” He inhales sharply, grin so wide it practically splits his face. “And there’s more! Some guy came in earlier who owns a bar in Grand Rapids. He wants to put our cider on tap.”
I brace a hand on the bartop, heart hammering, suddenly lightheaded. “Holy shit…”
“We did it,” Troy says gleefully, squeezing my shoulder.
I shake my head. “You did most of the work—”
“No. Webothdid.” His brown eyes lock onto mine, burning with a sincerity that makes my chest tighten. “This wouldn’t be possible without your cherries. Your dad was wrong to doubt you.”
I stare down at my feet, biting the inside of my cheek as his words shake through me like an earthquake. Troy’s thumb taps my chin, the contact brief and careful, to lift my face and meet my gaze again.
“You should be proud of yourself,” he says firmly.
My throat feels tight. I swallow, but it’s like trying to gulp down a cherry pit.
Growing up, praise was almost nonexistent. Good grades earned at most a nod. When I learned to drive a tractor at ten years old, my father spent the whole time critiquing my steering, even though I could barely reach the wheel. Every chore and responsibility thrust on me was an expectation, not something to be thanked for.
But mistakes? Dad never missed those. Mowing the lawn in crooked lines, misplacing a tool, forgetting to set up the sprinkler right—he made sure I knew exactly where I fell short. I’ve carried that with me so long that I barely notice when I do something right. All I see are flaws, imperfections, the ways I haven’t measured up.
And yet… here’s Troy. He sees the hours, the sweat, the grueling labor I’ve poured into the orchard—the things I’ve been trained to dismiss. He sees the good in me. And more than that, he wants me to see it too.
Stepping behind the bar, Troy pulls a brown paper bag from under the counter and fishes out two cans of cider. He grins, cracks the tabs, and hands one to me. The aluminum presses cold against my palm.
“I saved the last two,” he says, lifting his can in a toast.
I tap mine against his, our fingers brushing just for a second, and a spark of warmth shoots through me.
“To our partnership,” he adds, winking.
A knowing smile tugs at my lips as I lift the can to my mouth. “To us.”
Moonlight shimmers across the rippling lake as I drive the road that hugs its edge, the sky stretched overhead in an endless scatter of stars. The roads are empty this late—or early, technically, since it’s past one in the morning.
I stayed late at the brewery with Troy, lingering with customers, answering questions about the cider, soaking in the easy energyof the taproom. After closing, we cleaned up the space together, stacking stools and wiping down tables.
When he asked if I wanted to come back to his place afterward, I said yes before I could overthink it.
Now my fingers drum against the steering wheel as I pull into the parking lot of his apartment complex, my jaw tight, molars grinding. There are so many things I want to do to Troy once we’re alone in his apartment—and that knowledge is both thrilling and terrifying.
I park at the curb. Every window in the red brick building is dark except his, glowing with a soft yellow light. I draw in a steadying breath and climb out of the truck, forcing my legs to move. The metal staircase rattles beneath my boots as I ascend, the night air cool against my flushed skin.
At his door, I hesitate, then knock.
There’s shuffling inside, footsteps moving closer, followed by a few muffled, high-pitched meows. I can’t help the smile that curves my lips.
The door swings open a moment later, and there he is—barefoot, grinning, his gaze dragging over me in a slow, deliberate sweep.
