Chapter Eleven
Ashton
I hate small talk, but unfortunately it’s a huge part of running a business.
All day at the farmers market, I’m trapped behind a folding table while customers line up in an endless stream.
They sift through pints of cherries and comment on the weather, and I agree that yes, it’s hot.
They ask about my dad, and I tell them he’s doing fine.
They ask about the harvest, and I say it’s going well.
The answers come automatically, delivered with a tight-lipped smile as I try not to look as miserable as I feel.
The street itself is bursting with life, stalls packed shoulder to shoulder and overflowing with produce so bright it looks painted.
Tomatoes still warm from the sun. Cucumbers stacked neatly in woven baskets.
Leafy greens glisten under a fresh mist of cold water.
The stand beside mine is loaded with fresh-cut herbs and flowers, the scent of lilacs and roses drifting over me.
It’s a perfect summer day—warm, but not enough to be uncomfortable—and the market hums with locals and tourists alike. Kids lick ice cream cones that melt faster than they can keep up. Couples wander hand in hand, canvas totes bumping against their hips.
As a kid, the farmers market was always my least favorite part of cherry season. Luke loved it. He’d charm customers with his boyish grin and gap-toothed smile, standing on his tiptoes to offer samples. I stayed in the background, stacking crates, avoiding eye contact, hiding wherever I could.
But now, I can’t hide anymore. I’m the owner, and I need to start acting like it.
It’s a scorcher today, and I’m grateful for the lemonade I bought from one of the stalls—even if it was outrageously overpriced. Seven dollars for a small plastic cup of what I’m pretty sure is powdered mix? Ridiculous.
Still, it hits the spot. The cool sweetness slides down my throat, easing the hoarseness from hours of forced conversation.
I give the cup a shake, listening to the last few ice cubes rattle at the bottom, then slurp down the watery remnants.
The sound disappears into the easy, constant chatter of the market, and for a moment, I let myself blend into it.
“Hey, Ashton.”
Startled, my lips pop off the straw. I look up to find Troy standing in front of my booth, a familiar smirk tugging at his mouth.
Sweat glints along the bronzed line of his collarbones and the snake tattoo curling up the side of his throat.
A few strands of black hair cling to his temples, the ends of his mullet curling just below his ears.
He’s wearing a black tank top that shows off his arms and the faint dusting of chest hair disappearing beneath the fabric.
It looks… soft. For an embarrassingly long moment, I imagine what it might feel like under my palms or tucked beneath my cheek.
He strikes me as the kind of man who’d make a damn good pillow.
I swipe at my forehead and straighten, dragging my thoughts back where they belong. “Hi, Troy,” I say, arching a brow. “What are you doing here?”
“Just browsing.” He shrugs easily. “They don’t have farmers markets like this back in Chicago.”
I nod. “And is it everything you dreamed of?”
His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate. “It is now.”
Heat creeps up my neck as I drop my gaze, focusing on the containers of cherries lined up between us. Everything he says sounds like a cheesy pickup line that should make me roll my eyes, but somehow he delivers the words with effortless charm.
“Did you, um… buy anything?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“I picked up this catnip from the herb stand,” he says, lifting a bundle of leafy greens tied with brown twine. “For Cryptid.”
I blink. “Cryptid…?”
“My cat,” he explains, tapping his brewery’s logo on his tote bag. “Black Cat’s namesake.”
I stare at him. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who owns a cat—let alone the kind who buys organic catnip at a farmers market. Somehow, he never stops surprising me.
Troy plants one hand on the table and leans in, close enough that I catch the scent of warm cedar and sweat. “So, I’m guessing you came to your senses and decided to take me up on my offer, right?”
He’s persistent. If it were anyone else, it would probably annoy me. But with Troy, his determination makes me weak in the knees.
“I’m still thinking about it,” I say.
“What’s there to think about?” he presses. “You know it’s a good idea.”
I glance down at the table, blinking hard. “I mean, yes, but—”
“You should seriously consider it, Ash.” His words drip from his lips like honey, smooth and unhurried. “Both of our crafts, combining to create something beautiful. Almost like making a baby together, you know?”
He fucking winks. The audacity.
I drag my tongue across my teeth, trying to disguise how flustered he makes me. “I said I’d think about it.”
His grin widens, wicked and determined. “I’ll tell you what,” he murmurs, leaning in until I can feel the heat rolling off him. “Let me give you a tour of the brewhouse. I’ll show you the ropes, walk you through the process. After you’ve seen what I have to offer, you can make your decision.”
My throat bobs as our eyes lock. He’s looking at me like I’m something he wants—something he’s determined to win. The intensity of it tightens my chest. Why won’t he just drop this? Why does he care so much?
“Fine.” I let out a tired sigh, snapping my gaze back to the cartons of cherries. “If that’s what it takes to get you to let this go, then… fine. You can give me a tour.”
He lets out a low, satisfied hum. “Good,” he says, straightening. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
Before I can respond, he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a folded bill, and sets it on the table.
I stare at it. “What’s that for?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches past me and grabs one of the remaining cartons of cherries. His fingers brush mine—deliberately, I’m sure.
“I want more cherries,” he says, giving the carton an appraising look. “They’re sweet.” His eyes flick to mine. “And I like sweet things.”
Heat rushes up my neck so fast it’s embarrassing. I stare at the cash like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object on earth—anything to avoid looking at him.
Troy huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, like he’s amused by how easy I am to rattle. He tucks the carton under his arm, still smirking.
“Can you swing by the brewery tomorrow morning?” he asks. “We don’t open until noon, so it’ll be easier to show you around without customers crowding the taproom.”
I hesitate at the thought of being alone. With him.
“Uh… sure,” I mutter. “I can do tomorrow.”
“Perfect.” He lifts the cherries in the air, almost like a toast. “It’s a date.”
My stomach plummets. I open my mouth to argue—to tell him it’s not a date—but nothing comes out. My feet stay rooted to the pavement as he walks away, leaving me red-faced and buzzing with nerves.
What the hell did I just agree to?