Chapter Nine #2
Claremont Shores is still and quiet, the shops all closed down for the evening. Streetlamps spill a dull yellow glow across the empty road, and somewhere in the distance, the lake laps gently against the shore like the town’s heartbeat—a steady, familiar rhythm.
Ashton stops at the driver’s-side door and turns to face me.
“Thanks for tonight,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It, uh… it was fun. I haven’t had that much fun in a while, honestly.”
A proud smile tugs at my mouth. “You work too hard, Ashton.”
He shrugs, sheepish. “Yeah, probably.”
“I get it, though,” I say quietly. “I lose myself in work sometimes too.”
My mind flickers back to the months after Mel and I split—how I buried myself in starting the brewery, desperate for something to focus on, something solid to hold on to while everything else crumbled.
I wonder if Ashton does the same thing. If long days and aching muscles are his way of numbing something he doesn’t want to face.
“I’ll see you around, Troy,” he says, fingers curling around the door handle.
I shake my head. “Uh-uh. You owe me something,” I remind him. “I won, remember?”
He looks down at me, jaw twitching. “What did you have in mind?”
For half a second, I consider asking for something bold—a kiss, maybe—but I already know that would end in rejection. Instead, my attention drifts to the bed of his truck, where crates of cherries sit stacked high, their red skins glowing under the moonlight. I pat the cool metal of the tailgate.
“I’ll take a pint of your cherries,” I say, nodding toward them. “I want to see what all the hype’s about.”
Ashton searches my face, maybe to see if I’m joking, but then offers a small smile. “Alright.”
He circles to the back of the truck and pulls a small woven basket from one of the crates, filled to the brim with cherries. When he hands it to me, I cradle it in my arms.
“Enjoy them,” he says. “You won them fair and square. I hope they live up to your expectations.”
“They will,” I reply easily. “You never fail to impress me, Ashton Tremblay.”
Something flickers across his face—uncertainty, maybe discomfort—like praise still catches him off guard. He drops his gaze to the keys in his hand, fumbling with them, unable to meet my eyes.
I smile and bump his shoulder gently with mine. “Goodnight, Ashton.”
“Goodnight, Troy.”
I watch him climb into the truck and pull away, the basket of cherries warm in my arms and the echo of his presence lingering long after the taillights disappear down the road.
When I get home, the apartment is far too quiet for my liking. I flip on a Chicago Cubs game, not to watch so much as to fill the silence. I’ve never been much of a baseball guy, but my mom loved the Cubs. Keeping up with the scores feels like keeping a piece of her alive.
I scrub a hand over my face, push off the couch, and drift into the kitchen. Cryptid follows like a shadow, winding between my legs with every step. I open the fridge and grab one of my hard ciders—the latest batch I’ve been obsessing over for weeks.
I twist it open and take a sip.
It’s… fine. Which is exactly the problem.
Every small brewery around here has a “signature” cider, but they all have the same forgettable vaguely sweet flavor. I’ve been trying to figure out how to make mine different, something that actually stands out, but so far my mediocre experiments have left me feeling defeated.
I shut the fridge with a sigh—and freeze.
On the counter sits the carton of cherries Ashton gave me, their red skins gleaming under the harsh kitchen light.
My whirling brain comes to a screeching halt.
Cherry cider.
I stare at the carton, pulse ticking up as the idea unspools—sweet, tart, maybe spiced, definitely bold. Something that catches people off guard in the best way. And in a town like Claremont Shores, where tourists flood the streets in the summer heat, it’s fucking brilliant.
And I know exactly who can help me perfect it.
Ashton’s golden hair looks like a goddamn halo in the evening light, catching the warm rays as they pour through the brewery windows.
He’s sitting at one of the hightop tables, looking awkward as ever, rubbing his palms over his thighs like he’s not sure what to do with his hands.
His blue T-shirt shows off his biceps a little too well, the worn fabric clinging to his pecs in a way that’s… distracting.
I texted him yesterday asking if he could meet me here. Honestly, I half expected him to say no or demand to know what I wanted, which would’ve been fair. But to my surprise, he agreed without hesitation. Almost like he was looking forward to it.
When I clear my throat, Ashton finally glances up, green eyes wide.
I cross the room and offer my hand. “Hey,” I say, a little breathless. “Thanks for coming.”
He stands automatically, his grip warm and firm. “Uh, yeah. Of course.”
“I really appreciate it,” I say, releasing his hand reluctantly. “I, uh… I actually have a business proposal for you.”
His brows pinch together as he sits back down. “A… business proposal?”
“Yeah.” I slide into the chair across from him, our knees brushing beneath the table.
That brief spark of contact that zips straight up my spine.
“I want to make a cherry hard cider, and I think Tremblay Orchards would be the perfect partner. Two local businesses teaming up. Your cherries, my brewing. Something that celebrates both of our crafts. I really think we could make something special.”
Ashton goes still, eyes flickering over my face like he’s trying to figure out if I’m joking. Maybe this whole pitch is too forward—too enthusiastic—but subtlety was never my strong suit.
“Like… a collaboration?” he asks carefully.
“Exactly.” I nod. “We split start-up costs and profits fifty-fifty. A true partnership. We source directly from your orchard. Limited seasonal run to start. If it takes off, we scale.”
His teeth drag over his bottom lip as he looks down at the table, shoulders drawing in slightly. “I don’t know,” he says at last, voice soft.
“You don’t have to give me an answer right now,” I tell him quickly. “Just think about it. It could be great for the orchard. We’d put your logo front and center on the label. Make sure people know exactly where the fruit comes from. It’s good exposure.”
Ashton swallows hard, throat bobbing slowly. “My dad wouldn’t like it. Our family name being tied to alcohol.” He shifts, posture going rigid. “He’s… old-fashioned. Conservative.”
I lift a brow. “But you own the orchard now, right? Not him.”
His gaze snaps to mine, something conflicted flashing there.
“Legally? Yeah.” He exhales slowly. “But… I know it would make him upset. He had a hard enough time accepting that Luke took a job as a bartender—said it gave our family a bad reputation.” He lets out a brittle, humorless chuckle.
“I can only imagine what he’d say about this. ”
I narrow my eyes at him. “So even though you’re the boss, your dad still gets to call the shots?”
Ashton opens his mouth, then shuts it again, nostrils flaring—not with anger, but with something that almost looks like shame.
I lift both hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not trying to overstep, Ashton. Really. I just think… maybe you’re putting too much weight on what he thinks. What do you want?”
His arms fold tightly across his chest, a barrier pulled up between us. “It’s complicated, Troy.”
I exhale slowly, leaning back in my chair. “Alright,” I say gently. “I get it. You probably need some time to think. No pressure.”
He nods once, the tension in his jaw loosening a fraction.
I glance toward the bar. “Can I at least get you a drink? On the house.”
His eyes widen a little. “No, thank you. I should get back to the orchard.” He stands awkwardly, rubbing his palms on his thighs again.
Figures. I’ve never met anyone who works harder than Ashton.
I rise to my feet, giving him a small, crooked smile. “Well, I’m glad you came by. And for what it’s worth, I think you and I would make a great team.” I let my voice dip low before adding, “Professionally… and maybe otherwise.”
His lips part in a stunned little breath. A strangled noise escapes him—half cough, half embarrassed laugh—as he fumbles for a response and finds none.
I grin. “Shoot me a text if you make up your mind. Have a good night, Ashton.”
“You too,” he manages, cheeks pink as a summer sunset.
He hurries out of the brewery, almost tripping over the threshold in his rush. I watch him go, a slow smirk curling on my mouth.
This pull toward him—the insistent ache low in my ribs—is getting impossible to ignore. Something about him feels inevitable, like waves carrying me toward a shore I’m destined to reach.
He might not realize it yet, but sooner or later, I know he’ll be mine.