Chapter Two
Troy
The heat in the brewhouse is humid and heavy, the kind that sticks to your lungs.
I’m crouched beneath the kettle with a wrench in one hand and a flashlight clenched between my teeth, sweat rolling down my back.
The pipe connecting the kettle to the fermenter has been dripping all damn morning, leaving a thin puddle on the concrete floor.
“Come on,” I mutter around the flashlight, giving the joint another twist. Metal grinds together, then settles with a satisfying click. The leak stops.
Finally.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist, smearing sweat across flushed skin. My T-shirt is soaked through, clinging to my chest like an annoying, suffocating second skin. I drop the wrench into the toolbox with a clang and push to my feet, stretching my stiff shoulders.
The brewhouse always smells like warm grain, steel, and yeast—a scent I’ve grown to love. It’s a reminder that my dream has finally become a reality. The whole ordeal of moving to a different state for a fresh start has been both exhilarating and terrifying.
I step through the swinging door into the taproom, blinking as the soft natural light pours through the big lake-facing windows. The chatter of customers hums through the space as people laugh over flights, clinking glasses.
The lake is a sheet of late-afternoon blue beyond the glass, sunlight rippling across the waves. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. Worth every hour of sweat and stress.
When my commercial real estate agent first showed me this place, I knew it was meant to be mine.
I hadn’t ever heard of Claremont Shores: a tiny, insignificant, conservative tourist town nestled on Lake Michigan.
But somehow, when I saw a picture of this view, it sang to me like a siren calling me home.
I step behind the bar, grab a glass of water, and take a long, grateful gulp before heading for the kitchen.
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.
“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 like this.
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.