Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Troy
The sharp scent of smoke clings to my flannel, sunk deep into the red-checkered fabric.
My hand tightens around my beer, thumb tracing the condensation along the glass.
This folding chair is way too damn small for me.
I’m practically spilling out of it, legs stretched out toward the firepit, the heat seeping through the soles of my sneakers.
The fire crackles loud enough to drown out half the crap Luke’s rambling about, but I barely even notice. I’m nursing my beer, eyes fixed on the flames as the night settles thick and cold around the backyard.
It’s been a while since that girl—Phoebe, apparently—came back here without Ashton. She smiled when she sat down, but her eyes were glossy and red around the edges.
Is she his girlfriend? Or just a friend?
The thought of them dating sits heavy in my gut, a slow, sinking dread. Selfishly, I want to be the only one who gets under Ashton’s skin with a wink or flirty comment. I like the way he reacts—even when he tries to hide it.
I set down my almost-empty beer and push to my feet.
“Gonna take a piss,” I announce, cutting Luke off mid-story.
He waves me off without missing a beat, his laugh echoing across the yard.
I step into the dark, letting the party noise fade behind me. The air grows colder away from the fire, the sounds thinning to nothing but crickets and buzzing cicadas. I head toward the corner of the yard where I saw Ashton disappear.
When I finally spot him, the air punches out of my lungs.
He’s curled beneath the big maple, knees pulled tight to his chest, elbows balanced on them as his palms press hard into his eyes. My chest twists at the sight.
I crouch next to him, softly clearing my throat. “Ashton?”
He startles, jerking upright. His hands swipe fast across his face, and for half a second his eyes meet mine—wide and timid—before he drops his gaze to the grass.
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice tight. “I’m fine. Got… fire smoke in my eyes earlier.”
Uh-huh. I’m absolutely not buying that.
“This about a girl?” I press.
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Something like that.”
“Phoebe,” I say, nodding back toward the fire. “She your girlfriend?”
His whole body goes rigid. “No. She’s not. We’re just friends. I’m not… dating anyone.”
Huh. Friends. That’s… intriguing. A wave of relief washes over me, loosening the knot in my gut.
“Cool,” I say, letting a lazy smile curl across my mouth. “Just seems strange. A handsome guy like you? Figured the women in Claremont Shores would be lining up for a hardworking man.”
Color floods his cheeks. He ducks his head, fingers picking at the frayed strings of his hoodie.
“Dunno,” he says quietly. “Just… haven’t met the right person yet, I guess.”
The ambiguity of the word person instead of woman isn’t lost on me. My eyebrows flick up before I can stop them, a spark of something scarily similar to hope flickering in my chest.
“You’re smart,” I say, patting his shoulder gently. “Better to wait for the right person than rush into the wrong thing. I learned that the hard way with my marriage.”
His head snaps up, eyes wide. “You’re… married?”
“Divorced,” I correct, tapping my bare ring finger. “My ex and I split last year.”
His throat bobs. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
I wave it off. “Don’t be. She cheated on me with her coworker.”
His mouth twists into a grimace. “Shit, dude. That sucks.”
“Yeah.” I force a shrug, ignoring the sting in my chest. “But honestly? It was a blessing in disguise. If it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have moved to a different state and opened my own business. Everything happens for a reason, right?”
I believe it, too. I’m not religious, but I do believe in fate—some invisible current nudging us where we’re meant to go.
I know Mel’s already engaged. I found out during one of my late-night, whiskey-fueled Facebook stalking spirals. Looking back, it’s obvious her heart belonged to her lover long before we ever signed the divorce papers.
As much as it wrecked me, I’m grateful I walked in that day and saw the truth for myself. Because as brutal as it was, it saved me from loving someone who’d already given her heart to someone else.
Ashton nods slowly, his teeth catching on his bottom lip. Squinting in the moonlight, I can see the shape of his mouth, soft and uncertain. My gaze lingers too long. I can almost feel him—how his lips might fit against mine, how his slight stubble might scrape the corner of my jaw.
Christ. It’s been so long since I kissed a man. Long enough that I’ve almost forgotten how it feels.
“Look, I know we don’t know each other very well,” I say, resting a hand on his back. He goes rigid beneath my palm—hard muscle under soft cotton—but he doesn’t pull away. “But whatever you’re going through, you’ll get through it. You’re still young, right? Can’t be a day older than twenty?”
That earns me a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Fuck off. I’m twenty-four.”
I sigh dramatically. “Ah, to be young again.”
His face scrunches. “Wait, how old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
He snorts. “Old man.”
I knock my fist gently against his shoulder. “Fuck you.”
“I’m kidding,” he says quickly, shaking his head as he picks at a hangnail, gaze glued to the ground. “You, uh… you look good for your age.”
My stomach does a summersault. Christ, that was cute. I love when he gets like this—all flustered and shy.
“Thanks, blondie,” I say with a playful wink.
He ducks his head even more, golden locks shielding his eyes. The distant sound of laughter drifts from the firepit, flames glowing bright orange through the dark.
My head tilts toward it. “Come on. It’s freezing over here. You should warm up by the fire.”
He watches me with cautious uncertainty as I stand and offer both hands. He stares at them a moment, blinking like he’s not sure he’s allowed to take them.
But then he does—slowly, hesitantly—his skin cool against mine, fingers curling tight. I pull him up before he can overthink it. The second he’s on his feet, he drops my hands and wipes his palms on his jeans like he’s trying to erase evidence.
“Attaboy,” I tease, nudging him toward the fire.
Even in the dark, I don’t miss the way his cheeks darken as we cross the yard.
The group barely notices our return. Phoebe’s arguing with Luke about who burned the last batch of marshmallows, and someone’s playing music too loud from a portable speaker.
I guess out here in the sticks, this is what constitutes a party.
It’s very different from the ones I used to throw back in Chicago, but it’s a welcomed change.
I head straight for the case of drinks I brought with me and pluck out a lukewarm amber bottle. I hold it out to Ashton with an encouraging smile, unable to ignore the way my pulse picks up when his eyes meet mine.
“I’ve been working on a cider recipe. You should try it.” I lower my voice before adding, “It’s sweet—like you.”
His eyes widen, his mouth falling open. “I—um—”
Whatever response he was about to give seems to evaporate. Instead, he quickly snatches the bottle from my hand.
I lift my beer toward him with a playful wink. “Cheers.”
A faint flush creeps across his cheeks as he clinks his bottle against mine.
I circle back to my folding chair, sinking into it with a creak.
The fire hits me immediately—way hotter now that I’m sitting closer—and within seconds, sweat beads at the back of my neck.
I tug at the collar of my flannel before finally shrugging it off, draping the soft fabric over the back of the chair.
That leaves me in just a black tank top, the firelight warming my skin.
When I glance up, I catch Ashton staring.
His eyes go wide the moment he realizes he’s been caught, and he snaps his head away so fast I almost laugh. The tips of his ears glow in the firelight. And as he takes a tentative sip of cider, his plush lips brushing the rim, all I can think about is how badly I want him.
Glass clinks together as I slide bottles beneath the nozzles, filling them to the brim with a fresh batch of IPA.
The pungent scent of hops blends with a sharp hint of citrus, drifting through the warm, humid air of the brewhouse.
I fall into an easy rhythm—fill, cap, repeat—my head instinctively bobbing to the heavy bass pulsing through my earbuds.
“Hey! Troy!”
Imani’s voice cuts through the music, echoing off steel tanks as she strides in from the taproom. She pushes a stray curl behind her ear, her pink-painted lips pressed tight.
I tug out my earbuds, step back from the bottling machine, and hit the switch. The line whines to a stop, bottles settling with a hiss. “What’s up?”
“There’s someone here asking for you.”
My brows lift. “Who?”
She leans against a tank, crossing her arms. “Ashton Tremblay.”
I blink. For a second I think I misheard her over the machines. “Ashton?” My voice comes out shakier than I intend. “Yeah, I know him. Do you?”
Imani gives me a look like I’ve just asked if water is wet. “Uh, yeah. Of course I do. Everyone in Claremont Shores knows the Tremblay family. Mark Tremblay’s got, like, half a dozen kids running around town.” She huffs a laugh. “They’re kind of a big deal.”
Yeah. I’ve gotten that impression.
Driving out to his party, I passed his family’s orchard—sign after sign leading me toward a sprawling estate of rolling hills and rows of blooming trees as far as the eye could see. It’s massive.
I wipe my hands on a towel, trying to steady the stupid thrum in my chest. “Where is he?”
Imani jerks her thumb toward the front. “Waiting in the taproom. Want me to tell him you’re busy?”
“No,” I say quickly, rolling down my sleeves. “I’ll go to him.”
I wipe my palms on the towel one last time and push through the brewhouse door into the taproom. The shift from humid warmth to cool, oak-scented air hits instantly. Late afternoon light filters through the front windows, casting amber stripes across polished bartops.
Ashton stands dead center in the room. His shoulders are stiff, his jaw tight, and his eyes keep dancing around the room like he’s not sure where to look.
What really gets me, though, is the flannel shirt he’s holding—my flannel—folded so perfectly it looks like it came straight from a store display. He’s clutching it with both arms, cradling it against his chest.
“Hey,” he says quickly. “Sorry for just… showing up at your work. I, uh—I didn’t have your number.” He lifts the neatly folded flannel between us. “You left this at the party.”
I can’t help the grin tugging at my mouth as I walk up to him. “Guess I did.” I reach out, brushing his knuckles as I take the shirt from him. “Thanks for bringing it back.”
He nods, then clears his throat. “I also, um… wanted to thank you. For talking to me last night.” His gaze drops to the floor. “I was a mess. You shouldn’t have had to see me like that.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, and I mean it.
His throat bobs slowly. “Well… thanks, anyway.” He rocks back on his heels, looking around the taproom with open curiosity. “This place is beautiful.”
“Thanks. I’m proud of it. I’ve put my whole life into this.”
His lips twitch in a faint smile. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I get what that’s like.”
We stare at each other for a moment, not talking, while the sounds of the taproom float around us—chatter, clinking glasses, the muffled sound of popping oil from the nearby kitchen fryers. When Ashton meets my eyes, it hits me again how damn pretty his are up close.
Rolling back my shoulders, I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone.”
His brows pinch together, but he pulls it from his back pocket and passes it over. I tap in my number, add my name, then return it to him.
“Just in case you need to talk…” I let a sly grin spread across my face. “Or if I accidentally leave something at your house again.”
He blinks, bewildered. “Wait—did you leave the flannel there on purpose?”
I bite back a smirk and wink. “Maybe.”
A flush creeps up Ashton’s neck, and he presses his lips together like he’s trying not to smile. I keep my expression playful, but inside, my thoughts drift back to that night. Truth is, I didn’t leave the flannel there on purpose. At least, not at first.
I got halfway down his long driveway—headlights bouncing over potholes, the orchard trees looming on the horizon—when I realized my flannel was missing. I could’ve turned around, but instead, I chose to keep driving.
Because a stubborn, dangerous part of me wanted an excuse to see him again. To hear his voice. To look into those wide, unsure eyes.
“Well,” Ashton says softly, glancing toward the door before looking back at me. “I should, uh… probably get back to the orchard. Thanks again. For… y’know. Everything.”
I nod, but my throat feels tight. “Anytime.”
He gives me a timid half-smile before he turns, footsteps quiet on the polished floor as he makes his way toward the exit.
Sunlight from the front windows spills across him, catching on his blond hair, warming the broad line of his shoulders.
Even after he slips outside and the door swings shut behind him, I’m still staring.
I’ve downed plenty of booze in my life, but nothing has ever made me feel as intoxicated as Ashton Tremblay.