Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Troy
By the time I pull the van into the parking lot, the sun is sinking low on the horizon, painting the dark water in streaks of copper.
Tourists are already trickling in for the annual sailboat parade, crowding the pier and beach.
Across the harbor, boats line up for the procession, each one decked out with string lights and disco balls.
In this town, the sailboat parade signals the start of summer. When the chamber of commerce reached out last week and asked if I wanted to serve as the event’s sole alcohol vendor, I was pleasantly surprised. It was an opportunity I couldn’t refuse.
Imani sits in the passenger seat, one knee bouncing. “Look at this turnout,” she says, cheek pressed against the window. “We’re gonna get slammed.”
God, I hope so.
I know my beer is good. I’ve spent months perfecting it, experimenting with new brews and different hop distributors. But still, that nagging voice in the back of my mind insists I’m bound to fail, that opening this business was a mistake.
Unfortunately, the voice sounds a lot like Melanie’s.
Imani hops out of the van before I can even put it in park. I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. She’s exactly the kind of person I wanted as my first hire—smart, energetic, and a total go-getter. She’s good with the customers, charismatic in a way I’ve never been.
The fact she’s a married lesbian is an added bonus. It made me feel safe coming out to her a few weeks ago. It was a weight off my chest, finally having someone in this town who knew that part of me.
I climb out and circle to the back, swinging open the cargo doors.
Together we unload the kegs and crates of beer, the glass bottles clinking with each step as we haul everything across the lot to our booth.
Food trucks are parked alongside us, fryers popping with oil, the air heavy with the smell of sugary dough and grease.
Our table sits at the very end of the row, a prime spot right along the main walkway. The pop-up tent is already anchored down, and above the table hangs our banner: a black cat smirking mischievously, its tail curled around a pint of foaming beer. Cryptid’s unofficial mascot debut.
Imani sets down a crate of bottles, her biceps flexing beneath her sleeveless tank. “Good turnout, and everyone’s gonna be thirsty,” she calls over her shoulder. “We’re about to make bank.”
“Manifesting it,” I reply, hooking up the keg tap.
Almost on cue, the first round of boats flick on their lights.
A ripple moves through the crowd as they flock to the pier, desperate to find a good spot to take their photos.
As the boats start trailing by in a slow procession, the beach fills with cheers, camera flashes, and excited squeals from kids perched on their parents’ shoulders.
People pour in fast, packing tightly across the sand, the pier, and every inch of walkway. An unnatural mixture of music rolls over the harbor, each boat blasting its own soundtrack in a chaotic mash of pop, rock, and the occasional country twang.
My chest tightens as the first customer of the night peels out of the crowd and approaches our booth. It’s a tall older man with neatly combed white hair and thick, bushy eyebrows. He’s got a sunburned nose and is dressed in a crisp blue polo and boat shoes, not a single scuff in sight.
“Evenin’,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly. “Got any IPAs?”
“Of course.” I pop open the cooler. “Bottle okay?”
“Perfect.”
While I fish one out, icy water numbing my fingers, the man looks around our booth, curiosity written all over him.
“This brewery just opened up, right?” he asks, rocking back on his heels. “Down on Main Street?”
“Yep,” I say, handing him the bottle. “I’m the owner.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You?”
There it is—the reaction I’ve gotten at least a dozen times since moving here. With my tattooed arms and piercings, I know I stand out in a conservative lakeshore town. Still, the flicker of judgment on his face manages to scrape under my skin.
I straighten a little and extend my hand. He hesitates for half a beat before shaking it, my silver rings tapping against his palm.
“Troy Fischer,” I greet, forcing a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Greg Peters,” he responds, slipping his hand back into his pocket.
Oh, shit. The name rattles through my brain, raising goose bumps on my skin.
“You’re the mayor,” I blurt, eyes wide.
An amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he says, a soft laugh under his breath. “Tell me—what made you choose our quaint little town for your brewery?”
I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Well, the building I bought is beautiful. You can’t put a price on that view of the lake.” I nod toward the water. “To be honest, Claremont Shores just felt like a good place for… a fresh start.”
He grunts thoughtfully, then lifts his bottle in a small toast. “Well, welcome to Claremont Shores. Always good to have another local spot to support.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“If you ever need anything, Mr. Fischer, feel free to swing by my office.”
I blink, surprised. “Oh, sure. Will do.”
He gives me a polite nod before disappearing back into the crowd. The second he’s out of earshot, I mutter a curse under my breath, hoping I made a decent impression. Or at the very least, that he likes the IPA.
From that point on, there’s a constant line formed at our booth. Customers cycle through nonstop, shouting orders over the thumping music and the boat horns blaring across the harbor. Imani and I are pouring pilsners and handing out bottles as fast as we can.
To my pleasant surprise, I receive a lot of compliments—on our beer, on our logo, on everything. Each compliment lands like a warm hand on my back, steadying me. Pride pushes up through my ribs, sharp and unexpected.
Maybe I really can build something here. Maybe I really do belong.
I’m handing a customer a taster flight when something in my peripheral vision snags my attention.
A familiar silhouette.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Blond hair falling in tousled waves, brushed by the glow of streetlights.
Ashton.
He’s standing a few yards from the booth, tucked off to the side of the walkway, head bowed as he scrolls through his phone. Alone. My eyes dart around, searching for Luke nearby, or maybe a girlfriend, but there’s nobody.
I flip open the cooler and fish out a bottle of the beer he’d been drinking at the bar. The glass is cold and slick against my palm, numbing my skin.
“Need a smoke break,” I say, tapping the carton of cigarettes in my pocket. “Can you hold down the fort for a few minutes?”
Imani glances up from the cup she’s pouring, foam bubbling over the rim. Her brown eyes narrow just a touch, suspicion pulling her brows together. “Um, yeah. Sure. Go ahead.”
I slip out from behind the booth, weaving through clusters of people holding neon glow sticks and funnel cakes the size of their heads. The music gets louder, lights flashing off the water as the next boat chugs past.
As I cross the parking lot, I flick my lighter and bring a cigarette to my lips, the tip flaring bright orange in the dark. I take a slow drag, trying to settle the hammering in my chest as I approach Ashton. His brows pinch adorably as he types, completely absorbed.
I step beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body.
“Well,” I say, letting a slow smile curl at the corner of my mouth, “if it isn’t my favorite Tremblay brother.”
Ashton startles, whipping his head toward me, green eyes wide.
I hadn’t noticed it when he was seated at the bar, but he towers over me.
At five-seven, most men—and plenty of women—are taller than I am, but it’s never bothered me.
Despite the constant teasing about my height, I’ve never been insecure about it.
It’s never stopped me from landing dates. Confidence, after all, is everything.
“O-oh. Uh—hey. Troy, right?” he says, blinking fast.
He’s cute when he stutters.
“Flattered you remember my name, blondie,” I tease, winking at him.
His eyes flick to my mouth, probably looking at the cigarette.
I know it’s a lousy habit, one I’d kicked for a decade before the divorce hauled me back into it.
The moment he realizes he’s staring, a flush creeps up his cheeks.
He clears his throat and takes a deliberate step back, putting a few inches of space between us.
Okay, rude.
“Well, it’s not often we have new faces around here,” he mutters, pocketing his phone. His head turns back toward the parade, but his eyes are unfocused.
“Brought you this,” I say, holding the beer out to him. “You look like you could use a drink.”
He stares down at it, brows knitting. “Oh. Uh… thanks.”
He twists off the cap, the loud hiss filling the silence between us, and raises it to his mouth. Those plush pink lips curl around the glass, his throat working in slow, steady swallows. A dozen sinful thoughts detonate in my mind, making my fingers clench around my cigarette.
“You here alone?” I ask bluntly.
He blinks at me. “I—I, uh, no. I’m here with my brothers. They…” He gestures vaguely toward the food trucks. “Wanted some nachos.”
“Brothers?” I press, watching the way his throat works when he swallows. “You have more besides Luke?”
He nods slowly, taking another sip. “Two brothers, two sisters. I’m the oldest.”
My eyebrows lift as I take another drag, smoke blowing from my lips. “Big family, huh?”
He shrugs. “Well, you know… kids are basically just free farm labor.”
“Your family has a farm?”
He finally looks back at me, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Just making conversation,” I say with an innocent tilt of my head, flicking some ash onto the pavement.
“Tremblay Orchards,” he says after a moment. “It’s a cherry farm. I’m the owner now.”
“Ah.” I let my gaze drag deliberately over the breadth of his shoulders and the golden skin peeking beneath his collar. “That explains the muscles and the tan. Manual labor looks good on you.”
His breath catches. He fidgets with the bottle cap in his palm, squeezing it.
“So, do you, um…” He pauses to take a deep breath. “Do you have any siblings?”
My posture hardens on instinct. God, I hate this question. It always opens a can of worms.
“Sort of.” I clear my throat. “Half-siblings. On my dad’s side.”
“How many?”
I pause to count each of them on my fingers. There are a few I’ve never even met. My father isn’t good at much besides being fertile, and he’s left a trail of neglected offspring scattered across Illinois to prove it.
“Like… eight or nine, I think. Some older, some younger.” I shrug. “I’m not close with any of them. They never stuck around with my dad long enough for me to get attached.”
He stares at me for a beat, blinking. “And your mom…?”
My gaze drops to the glowing tip of my cigarette. “Died when I was three. Car accident.”
His eyes widen slightly. “Oh. I’m… sorry.”
I take another drag, rocking on my heels. “It was a long time ago.”
I rub the back of my neck, sweat pooling along my skin. I hate the way he’s looking at me with sympathy. I’ve spent my whole life getting that look.
“So, um… where’d you grow up?” Ashton asks, voice softer now.
I hum, grateful for the subject change. “Chicago.”
His hand tightens around the neck of the bottle. “I bet Chicago’s a lot different than here.”
A laugh bursts out of me, breaking the tension. “That’s an understatement.”
He shifts on his feet, kicking a stray pebble with his boot. “Well, I’m glad you chose to come to Claremont Shores. Your beer is incredible,” he says before taking a long pull from the bottle.
I smile, exhaling a puff of smoke through my teeth. “Thanks. The brewery’s doing well so far. Tonight was definitely a success.”
He nods and swallows hard, shoulders tightening like he’s torn between staying planted beside me or fleeing into the crowd. His gaze skitters toward the passing boats—anywhere but at me—as a faint blush warms his cheeks.
Before I can tease him about it, a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
I turn to see Luke grinning wide, a cardboard tray of nachos overflowing with neon cheese, ground beef, and an absurd amount of jalapenos balanced in his other hand. A backwards ballcap keeps his shaggy golden hair out of his eyes.
“Hey, Troy!” he booms. “How’s it going, man?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
Standing just behind him is a taller, thinner figure who looks younger. His upper lip is marked by the beginnings of a wispy mustache, his long blond hair falling to his shoulders in frizzy strands.
“Oh—this is our little brother, Justin,” Luke says, nudging him with his elbow. “Justin, this is Troy. Brewery Guy.”
Justin gives a polite nod. “Hi,” he murmurs, so quietly it’s almost swallowed by the music.
“Hey,” I say, offering a tight smile. “Good to meet you.”
He nods again, shifting his weight as if he’d rather sink into the pavement than be the center of attention.
Luke shovels a nacho into his mouth and talks around it. “You sellin’ a lot of beer tonight? This crowd is massive, man.”
“Yeah. It’s been a good night so far,” I say, though my attention keeps drifting back to Ashton.
He’s tense beside me, cheeks flushed as he pretends to study the parade. It’s adorable—the way he tries to act unaffected when it’s painfully obvious he wants me. Maybe he hasn’t realized it yet, but he will. Eventually. It’s inevitable.
I clear my throat, easing back a step. “Well, I should let you guys enjoy the rest of the parade. I need to get back to my booth before my employee assumes I’ve ditched her.”
Luke claps me on the back. “Later, dude.”
Justin offers a shy half-wave.
When I turn to Ashton, he finally lifts his gaze—vivid green eyes catching the moonlight. A faint lake breeze ruffles his hair, tossing a few strands across his forehead. He bites the inside of his cheek, jaw tightening.
“See you around, Ashton,” I say, adding a deliberate wink meant only for him.
And with that, I turn and head back toward the lights and noise of the parade, feeling his gaze burning between my shoulder blades.