Chapter Nine
Troy
The door creaks as I push into Old Harbor Tavern, the trolley bumping over the threshold, stacked kegs rattling softly.
Warm, sticky air envelops my skin, lingering with the scents of spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke.
Chatter fills the air, mixed with an old grunge rock song pulsing from the old jukebox.
As I haul the kegs through the crowded space, my eyes drift automatically, cataloging familiar faces.
When you live somewhere as small as Claremont Shores, it’s easy to recognize locals.
After being here for only a few months, I know most of the regulars around town—even if I haven’t gotten all their names yet.
You see the same people everywhere: the single supermarket, the one dive bar, the handful of boutiques.
Admittedly, I’m guilty of people-watching.
Mel used to tease me and call it creepy, but I’ve always thought it’s just curiosity—an appreciation for the infinite narratives unfolding around us.
Now, living in this cozy lakeside town, my life almost feels like a real-life Hallmark movie.
These people are the cast, familiar faces moving through their routines, each carrying a unique story.
I keep moving through the tavern, the trolley rattling softly as I weave through the room. My gaze finally lands on the bar, and there’s Luke behind it with an easy grin, sleeves rolled up, deep in conversation with someone perched on a stool.
When I round the corner, I see who he’s talking to.
Ashton.
He looks exhausted. His blue henley shirt is clinging to him, hair mussed, skin flushed and damp like he hasn’t fully cooled down yet. An ice-cold beer is sweating in front of him, his forearms resting on the bar as he talks to his brother.
I school my expression into something neutral. I’ve gotten very good at pretending to be an aloof, mysterious asshole. Internally, though, my heart does that stupid little flutter that makes me dizzy.
“Troy!” Luke booms when he spots me. “So good to see you!”
“That what you tell all your distributors?” I ask, steering the kegs behind the bar.
He grins. “Nah, bro. Only you.”
I snort and start unloading the kegs, arms aching as I heft them into place. Luke claps me on the shoulder and then jerks his chin toward the other end of the bar.
“Duty calls,” he says, grabbing a bottle of tequila. “Yell if you need anything.”
He disappears to tend to a cluster of customers, leaving me alone with Ashton and the low hum of the bar.
For a beat, neither of us says anything.
I slide the last keg into position and wipe my hands on my jeans. “So,” I say lightly, glancing at him. “Did you come here to see me, blondie?”
Ashton nearly chokes on his beer.
“What? No,” he says too fast, color blooming across his cheeks. “Of course not. This is—this is the only bar in town. I came to talk to my brother. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
I arch a brow, fighting a smile. “Funny. I make this delivery the same day, same time every week.” I tilt my head. “Seems convenient this is the second time you’ve just happened to be here.”
His mouth opens, closes, and opens again. “I—I mean—”
I crack, a laugh slipping out before I can stop it. “Relax. I’m just fucking with you.”
He exhales, shoulders dropping, then shoots me a glare that lacks any real heat. “You’re an asshole.”
“Guilty,” I reply, grinning.
I wipe my hands again, then step out from behind the bar and take the empty stool beside him. The space between us feels charged the second I sit, his knee angled just close enough to mine to make me acutely aware of it.
“Rough day at the orchard?” I ask, nodding toward his beer.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “You have no idea.”
I hum in understanding, tracking his gaze even though he’s clearly trying not to meet mine. His eyes are a vivid green in the dim bar, catching the glow of the neon lights overhead. He stares down at his glass, thumb tracing slow, restless circles through the condensation.
“So,” I say after a beat, keeping my tone light, “I’ve heard your family’s kind of a big deal around here. You’ve got quite the reputation.”
His jaw tightens. “Um, yeah… I guess so.” He exhales sharply through his nose. “My great-grandfather moved here in the forties to start the orchard. We’ve kept it going ever since. Every generation, the eldest son has taken over.”
“And that’s you. The eldest son. Right?”
He nods, lips pressing into a thin, resigned line.
The weight of that settles in my chest. That kind of legacy feels heavy just hearing about it. It must be tough, being so young with so much responsibility.
“Your dad retired?” I ask carefully.
He nods. “Yeah, but not willingly. My mom basically had to threaten him into it after his heart attack last year.”
My eyes widen. “Shit. Is he okay?”
“Yeah. He’s fine,” Ashton says quickly, then hesitates. “But even though he’s retired—and I’m technically in charge—he’s still… very involved.”
I tilt my head. “How so?”
He takes a long pull from his beer, then wipes the foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand, sighing. “My dad doesn’t like change. He’s stubborn. Opinionated. Thinks every decision I make is the wrong one.”
I frown. “Sorry. That sounds rough.”
He waves it off. “It’s fine. I love the orchard. I really do. My family can just be… difficult.”
The air grows a little too heavy after that, the kind of quiet that invites overthinking. I clear my throat and nod toward the dartboard at the back of the bar.
“Wanna play darts?”
He blinks, caught off guard. “Uh—aren’t you working?”
I shrug. “I’m my own boss. I deserve a break.”
He snorts softly, then shakes his head. “I’m terrible at darts. My hand-eye coordination’s not great.”
“That so?”
“Yeah. Luke was always better at that stuff,” he adds, words tumbling out faster now. “Sports, games, anything competitive. He played football in high school.”
I squint at him. “Do you always compare yourself to your siblings like that?”
He goes quiet, shoulders drawing in slightly. “I…” He takes another sip of his beer instead of finishing the thought.
I reach out before I can overthink it, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. He stills beneath my touch.
“I can teach you,” I insist. “Come on.”
Before he can protest again, I grab his wrist and tug him off the stool, steering him toward the dartboard. He follows, beer clutched tightly in his other hand, nervous laughter trembling from his lips. I feel his eyes trained on me as I snag the darts from the ledge beneath the board.
Ashton sets his half-empty beer aside like he’s afraid it might get caught in the crossfire, then folds his arms, all attention on me.
“Feet shoulder-width apart,” I explain, planting myself at the line taped on the floor. “Elbow up. You don’t throw with your whole arm—just guide it.” I lift my forearm, wrist loose. “It’s about control, not force.”
I draw back and flick my wrist. The dart sinks neatly into the triple ring on the twenty.
Ashton lets out a low whistle. “You’re good at this.”
I grin. “Your turn.”
He hesitates, then steps up, shoulders tight, dart clenched clumsily between his fingers. He squints at the board, breath held, and throws.
The dart veers off immediately, skidding across the floor with a pathetic little clatter.
For a beat, he just stares at it.
I can’t help it. I burst out cackling, doubled over and clutching my stomach. Ashton shoves me playfully before he joins me, groaning and laughing at the same time, cheeks flushing a bright, embarrassed pink.
“Wow,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That was… humiliating.”
“Hey,” I say, still smiling. “Let’s try again. There’s still time to redeem yourself.”
He shoots me a dubious look but bends to grab another dart. He lines up again, jaw set, determination written all over him.
I step in behind him without really thinking—close enough to feel his body heat bleeding into mine, close enough to catch the scent of his shampoo, something clean and masculine with an edge of pine and cedarwood.
He stiffens immediately.
“Relax,” I murmur near his ear, my voice dropping low. “You’re all locked up.”
He swallows, throat bobbing, but doesn’t respond.
I adjust his grip gently, my fingers closing over his. “Here,” I say softly. “Loosen your wrist.” I guide his elbow higher, my chest brushing his back. “Take a breath.”
His inhale stutters, shallow and quick.
I draw his arm back with mine. “Now—don’t overthink it.”
The dart flies through the air and sinks into the board, off-center, but still a respectable shot.
Ashton blinks, then lets out a startled laugh. “I did it!”
A smile curves my mouth as I stay close to him longer than necessary, acutely aware of the warmth and tension where our bodies meet. “Told you,” I say quietly. “You just needed a little help.”
He steps back at last, clearing his throat, but a small, shy smile lingers. “Thanks.”
I collect the darts and twirl one between my fingers, noticing the way his eyes follow the movement before he catches himself. He drains the rest of his beer, cheeks still flushed, and sets the empty glass aside.
I lean back against the wall, arms crossing over my chest, watching him for a moment before clearing my throat. “So,” I say lightly, “how about a real game, with stakes?”
He hesitates, then gives a timid nod. “Uh, sure. What are the stakes?”
“If you win,” I say, grinning, “I’ll give you a free round at my taproom.”
He bites his bottom lip. “And if you win?”
I hum thoughtfully, lifting the dart and lining up my shot. “Oh,” I say, glancing back at him with a smirk, “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
His eyes widen, and he ducks his head to hide his blush.
I snicker under my breath and let the dart fly.
An hour later, I’m still riding the high of my victory as I walk Ashton out to his truck. The night air has a sharp bite as we cross the dimly lit parking lot behind the bar. Ashton folds his arms over his chest, boots thudding softly against the pavement.