Chapter 20 Taylen
TAYLEN
There’s nothing like an honest day’s work to keep unwanted thoughts at bay. Especially thoughts of a certain rockstar with talented hands and magical lips that are as addictive as the cider I’m bottling today.
So much for keeping those thoughts at bay.
It’s a good thing I’ve done this process so many times that I know I’ll catch myself before I miss a step.
The cider flows golden through layers of filtration, each pass removing more impurities until what remains runs clear as spring water. If only my emotions could be filtered so easily. But Bastian lingers in my system like unfermented sugar: sweet, volatile, and impossible to remove.
I absolutely love the science of making cider. Turning simple juice into something more complex is like my own brand of magic, and I must be doing something right because I have multiple clients competing for my brews.
Still, my traitorous brain keeps wandering to the frozen lake, to Bastian on his knees with his mouth on my skin. The taste of him lingered on my tongue as I drove away, pretending each encounter would be the last.
“Six point eight percent,” I mutter to myself, so I can force my brain back to the task at hand. “Right where it should be.” I record the alcohol content and then line up the bottles.
I place the Howard Orchard label perfectly on each bottle. There’s no room for crooked applications or bubble flaws. Maybe one day I can expand the orchard and automate some of the process, but today, this is the therapy I need.
“This can only end badly, you know?” I tell the growing row of bottles. “He’ll leave again, and then what? I go back to pining from afar, but this time knowing exactly what I’m missing?” The words taste bitter as overfermented fruit. “It’ll be hell.”
My phone buzzes against the metal work table, screen lighting up with a familiar name.
“Hey, Remy, what’s up, man?”
“Taylen, my dude. How’s it going?” After twelve years of working on my skin, Remy has become a friend. I’m sure we’d be closer if he didn’t live and work all the way in Burlington.
“I’m good. Bottling a new batch of cider.”
He groans. “Man, I’ll never leave Burlington, but if I ever reconsider it, it’ll be to live next door to you.”
I laugh. “I don’t love that you love my cider more than you love me.”
“Why choose?” he asks with the flirty voice he uses on everyone. It stopped working on me when his husband told me I wasn’t special. He does it for everyone. The man is a serial flirt. “Anyway, I’m calling to confirm your appointment. Same time as always?
“Yeah, same time.” I swallow against the sudden thickness in my throat. “Still working on the design though.”
“No rush, brother. We’ve got time to get it perfect.” Remy’s tone is filled with understanding. “Twelve years now, right?”
“Twelve years,” I confirm quietly. Twelve years of marking the loss of my brother in permanent lines on my skin. Of trying to keep Jackson’s memory alive. “I’ll bring you a few bottles.”
“Dude, you should play harder to get. I’d totally divorce Jack for full access to your brews.”
No, he wouldn’t. I smile to myself. Those two are glued at the hip, and I’m sure their idea of foreplay is to ink each other.
I get back to work as soon as the call is over. The last thing I need right now is to spiral down a rabbit hole of missing my brother and wondering how he’d feel about what’s happening with Bastian. Would anything even have happened if Jackson were still alive?
My phone buzzes again, but this time, with a message.
Finn:
Joe’s Bar tonight. Not taking no for an answer.
I reply straight away. Maybe an evening out with my friend is just what I need. As long as he doesn’t decide to press too hard to find out who I hooked up with.
While I don’t exactly regret confiding in him, I’ve kept this secret for so long that I don’t know how to handle anyone else knowing how I feel about my best friend’s brother.
Hours later, after finishing the last of my orders and a quick shower, I find myself pulling into Joe’s parking lot.
Warm air hits my face as I step inside, carrying scents of stale beer and old wood. It doesn’t take long to spot Finn. Not when he’s at the largest table surrounded by Bastian, Fox, Nikko, and Stone.
He stands when he sees me. “You made it!”
The only free chair is next to Finn and dead opposite Bastian. Because, of course, it would be.
“What’s the occasion?” I ask. Clearly, this isn’t one of our usual evenings. Not when the whole band is here.
I place my sole attention on Finn, but my eyes betray me, finding Bastian across the table like a compass finding north. He watches me over his beer, his expression unreadable in the bar’s dim light.
“Things are about to get busy around here. Not just for me, but for all of you. I know running a small-town Christmas festival isn’t what you signed up for, but I cannot thank you enough.” Finn turns to me and then Bastian. “You two are the best brothers anyone could have.”
“If only I knew all it would take to get that title was to give up a tiny bit of land,” Bastian jokes.
“Joint best,” I add. “And I don’t see a beer in front of me anywhere.”
Finn laughs. “No one told you to be late for round one. Anyway, from the land to ideas, running the music activities and coordinating schedules, you’ve all been amazing. So, for tonight, all food and drink is on me. Well, it’s on the mayor, but I’m taking credit because I asked.”
The declaration draws an immediate response from around the table. Stone raises his glass with characteristic enthusiasm, looking like he’s calculating what “on me” means.
“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Stone says, grin spreading wide. “Finn Hall, enabler of fine drinking and finer company. Can we just clarify that this deal includes top-shelf whiskey?”
Called it.
“Sure does,” Finn says, and I laugh. Joe’s top-shelf is as low as it gets. This is beer and cider land.
Nikko raises his beer. “About time someone appreciated our work. Do you know how many spreadsheets I’ve created for this festival?”
“Spreadsheets don’t count as work,” Stone interjects, already signaling Joe for another round. “Real work involves actual sweat. Which reminds me—” He turns to Bastian with exaggerated seriousness. “Your brother here made me move fence posts. Plural. In freezing temperatures.”
“You volunteered,” Finn protests, but he’s smiling. “Multiple times, actually. Something about ‘getting authentic farm experience’ so you can feel like a local.”
Fox snorts. “He took seventeen photos of himself with the fence posts,” he offers, deadpan. “For Instagram. Winterberry’s social media scene is thriving.”
The table erupts in laughter, even Stone joining in as he pulls out his phone to prove the artistic merit of said photos.
“Seriously, though,” Finn continues once the laughter settles. “I couldn’t have done this without you guys. The sound system alone—” He gestures helplessly, words failing to capture the scope of what they’ve accomplished.
“It was nothing,” Nikko finishes firmly.
“Compared to what this town’s done for us over the years.
” His expression softens with something that might be nostalgia.
“Every time we needed to disappear from the spotlight, Winterberry welcomed us home. No questions, no press leaks, just…acceptance. We’ll move all the fence posts in the world for that kind of peace. ”
“Says he who moved exactly zero,” Stone says.
“Not my fault that I’m good at delegating.”
“More like being elsewhere when physical work is required,” Bastian says, and Nikko replies with his middle finger.
Joe keeps us fed with his legendary wings, and the drinks keep on coming. After a while, I almost stop noticing how often Bastian's eyes land on me. Almost.
“The opening ceremony is nearly ready,” Finn continues, licking barbecue sauce from his fingers. “The sound system installation starts tomorrow, weather permitting.”
“Weather better permit,” Stone grumbles, fingers tapping against his glass. “Can’t adjust acoustic balance in a snowstorm.” His technical concerns launch a discussion that should hold my attention, but Bastian’s presence across the table is way too distracting.
Our eyes meet between other people’s words, and suddenly, I feel too hot under my sweater.
“I gotta take a leak,” I announce abruptly, pushing back from the table. The guys are so engrossed in their discussion that they don’t pay attention to me leaving.
The restroom is significantly cooler than the bar.
I run cold water over my hands while I debate staying and playing it cool, or leaving so I can go home and figure out a way to exist in the same space as Bastian without combusting from wanting him, from wanting to give in and believe he’s here to stay. Maybe stay with me.
The door creaks behind me, and my heart skips a beat, but it’s just another guy, barely nodding as he passes. I dry my hands and step outside the restroom, only to find myself face-to-face with Bastian Hall.
“Come with me?”
Before I can respond, his hand wraps around my wrist, and he’s pulling me toward the emergency exit. The bar’s noise fades as the heavy door swings open, and I’m slapped with the cold night air.
My back hits brick before I fully register what’s happening, the rough texture catching on my jacket.
Bastian cages me in, his palms flat against the wall on either side of my head.
He doesn’t touch me, but his body radiates heat just inches away, close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with the single beer he’s been nursing.
“I’m having a weird sense of dejá vu,” I say, hoping my voice comes out sounding unaffected by his closeness.
“This time there's no one to interrupt,” he murmurs, fingers ghosting along my jaw. “No paparazzi, no reasons to stop.” His thumb traces my bottom lip, drawing shaky breath from my throat.
“Bastian,” I manage, but his name holds no warning, just a want that builds with every touch, every moment. His mouth covers mine before I can say more.
My body betrays me as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. The leather of his jacket feels cool under my palms, but his body burns against mine as he presses closer. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for him immediately. What’s the point of pretending I don’t want this?
One of his hands cups my face while the other grips my hip, holding me against the wall like he thinks I might try to escape. But escape is the last thing on my mind as his thigh slides between my legs, creating friction that draws embarrassing sounds from my throat.
“Come home with me,” he breathes against my mouth. His lips trail kisses across my neck until his teeth find a sensitive spot below my ear, sending electricity through my system.
Want wars with fear in my chest, making it hard to think past the sensation of his body against mine. “I can’t,” I whisper, even though my hands clutch at his shoulders like I’m afraid he’ll disappear. “This is… We shouldn’t…”
“Why not?” He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, his pupils blown wide with a desire that matches my own. “Give me one good reason why we can’t have this.” His thumb strokes my cheek with gentleness that hurts worse than any roughness.
“Because you’ll leave.” The words escape before I can catch them, carrying more truth than I mean to reveal.
“What do I have to do?” His voice drops lower, rougher. “What do I have to do to make you believe I’m not going anywhere?” His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Tell me what you need, Taylen. I’ll do it.”
But I can’t find words to explain how this fear feels like a second skin, how twelve years of barely seeing the only person who would have understood my grief left scars.
I can’t voice how wanting him feels like falling without knowing where the ground is, like driving too fast on icy roads, like every reckless choice I’ve ever tried to stop making.
“I have to go,” I manage, pushing against his chest with hands that shake slightly. He steps back immediately, giving me space I’m not sure I actually want. The cold rushes in where his warmth was, making me shiver.
I go back inside the bar, make a quick excuse to Finn, and grab my coat.
My lips burn from Bastian’s touch all the way to the farm. It’s not until I park in front of Bastian’s cabin that I realize I have no control anymore. I’m not the one in charge. I’m not the one making the decisions here.
I stare at the front door, knowing I need to turn around and go home, but my feet make a different decision. Suddenly, I regret keeping that goddam key he made for me.
Gouta greets me at the door with enthusiasm. The chickens follow her lead, Moira and Myrtle investigating my boots with curiosity.
“What the hell am I doing here?” The question falls into empty air, drawing no response except Gouta’s gentle headbutt against my leg.
I drop down on the couch and hold my head in my hands. Why am I running? Why am I so afraid that he’ll run? And why the fuck am I here if I’m running? Am I running toward him or away from him?
The photos on the walls catch my attention when I look up. The band throughout the years and family moments. Jackson appears in several, his smile preserved forever. He looks exactly like I remember, forever young while the rest of us keep aging without him. This is the Bastian no one sees.
The eager paparazzi, the press, the fans. They get rockstar Bastian. Out here, we get real Bastian. The farmer. The local boy who grew up to achieve amazing things.
“He’ll leave again,” I tell Gouta, but I’m pretty sure I’m just trying to convince myself. Because everything Bastian is doing indicates otherwise.
In the end, my fear rules as I stand and leave.