Chapter Twelve
Troy
I’ve been cleaning the same damn fermentation tank for ten minutes.
My rag moves in slow circles across the stainless steel, the citrusy polish sharp in my nose, but I barely notice it. All I can focus on is my warped reflection staring back at me. Even through the distortion, the anxiety is obvious—my hair damp with sweat, my lips chewed raw from biting them.
The smudge I spotted on the tank this morning is long gone.
I’m just stalling at this point, trying to give my nerves time to settle.
Which is ridiculous. I give brewery tours all the time.
Investors, distributors, curious tourists who only want a selfie.
I could talk through the process in my sleep.
But this isn’t a regular tour.
This is Ashton.
I need this deal to go through. More than that, I want him to see I know what I’m doing—that this place isn’t just some small-town passion project I stumbled into.
I built this brewery from the ashes of my previous life.
I clawed my way out of that wreckage and came out standing, driven by a new hunger to chase the life I actually wanted.
In a way, every bit of success I’ve had since that horrible day is its own quiet “fuck you” to the people who tried to break me. And admittedly, I want Ashton to be impressed too.
A sharp knock hits the side entrance door, loud enough to make me nearly drop the bottle of cleaning spray in my hand. I set my supplies aside, palms suddenly damp, and cross the brewhouse toward the heavy metal door.
Showtime.
When I pull it open, Ashton is standing there in the alleyway, hands stuffed in his pockets. And damn, he looks good.
He’s wearing muddy boots and worn denim jeans, dust clinging to the knees. His black T-shirt dips low at the collar, exposing the clean lines of his collarbones and a faint patch of blond chest hair. A blue baseball cap sits on his head, taming his messy golden waves.
“Sorry,” he says with a nervous laugh, knocking his boots together to shake the clumps of dirt loose. “I’m a mess. I was at the orchard.”
He definitely doesn’t look like a mess. If anything, the dirt and sweat only make him sexier.
“It’s fine,” I say, stepping back to let him in. “You’re fine. Come on.”
Ashton slips inside hesitantly, arms folded across his chest like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.
His gaze sweeps the brewhouse, wide and curious, tracking up toward the high ceiling crisscrossed with stainless steel piping.
Each step he takes across the concrete floor echoes loudly, the sound ricocheting off brick and metal.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to stop staring. “So… this is the heart of the operation,” I say, gesturing around us.
He nods, eyes bright as he steps closer, craning his neck to take it all in. “It’s… bigger than I expected.”
I can’t stop the smile that forms on my face. Does he realize how that sounds, or is he really just this obliviously innocent? Either way, I fucking love it.
“Yeah,” I say lightly, a hint of amusement in my voice. “I get that a lot.”
His ears go pink and he lets out an awkward little chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze drops to the concrete floor.
I know I should put him out of his misery, but he’s so darn cute when he’s flustered.
I pivot, gesturing toward the nearest tank. “Alright. So, this is where beer production actually starts. We mill the grain first, then mash it with hot water to extract the sugars.” I point toward the adjoining equipment. “That creates the wort, which we boil, add hops, and cool down.”
Ashton follows closely, nodding along, eyes darting between the tanks and the piping overhead. “And that’s where fermentation starts?”
“Exactly.” I stop in front of a towering stainless steel fermenter and rest my palm against its cool surface. “The yeast gets added here. Temperature control is everything. Too hot, too cold—you ruin the batch.”
He studies it like he’s committing every detail to memory. “You’re a really smart guy,” he says quietly.
“I’m a fast learner,” I reply earnestly. “When I want something, I commit one hundred percent of myself to it.”
Our eyes meet. In the low light of the brewhouse, his green irises deepen to the color of rain-soaked moss.
“Impressive,” he says, a small smile twitching on his lips.
Christ. If he keeps looking at me like that—keeps complimenting me like that—I might do something reckless. Like pin him against the nearest fermentation tank and kiss him until he forgets how to breathe.
Squaring my shoulders, I force myself to cross the floor toward the fruit press.
It’s one of my newer investments, bought specifically for experimenting with cider recipes.
A massive wooden barrel with a hand crank, built to extract juice the old-fashioned way.
Automated presses are more common these days, but there’s something deeply satisfying about doing it by hand—turning sweat and aching muscles into something tangible.
I pat the rim of the press. “This,” I say, glancing back at Ashton, “is where your cherries would come in.”
He hums with interest, leaning closer to examine it. “Tart cherry varieties are better for hard cider, right?”
“Yeah, for sure. The acidity cuts through the sweetness of the apples. It’s a great flavor combination,” I explain. “You grow both sweet and tart, right?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I watch his brow crease as he straightens, his attention drifting from the press to the maze of piping overhead. The hiss of steam and the low bubble of fermenting tanks fill the silence between us. He rocks back on his heels, eyes wide with wonder.
“So,” I ask, keeping my tone casual, “what do you think?”
Ashton exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? It’s impressive. And the hard cider…” He trails off, then nods. “I think it’s a really good idea.”
A cautious grin spreads across my face. “Sounds like there’s a but coming.”
His jaw ticks. “Yeah. There is.”
“Let me guess.” I roll my eyes. “Your dad?”
His shoulders tense. “He’s not going to like it.”
“Good thing he’s not the one making the call.” I step closer, dropping my voice. “Ashton, you’re a grown man. You don’t need his permission to run your business the way you want.”
He swallows, clearly aware of the shortened distance between us, but he doesn’t step back. His hands curl at his sides, knuckles whitening.
“What do you want?” I press.
His gaze flickers between my eyes. I toy with the ring in my lip with my tongue, looking up at him, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against my face.
Ashton swallows hard. “I want…” He takes a breath. “I want us to be business partners.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. Satisfied, I extend my hand. “Then let’s make it official.”
His hand slides into mine, warm and calloused, and the contact sends a jolt straight up my arm. I give it a firm shake, sealing the deal.
“Alright,” I say, all business now. “I’ll have my accountant draft up a contract and email it to you by the end of the week. You can look it over, make sure everything feels right.”
Ashton nods, his grip lingering a beat longer than necessary before he lets go. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
“Great,” I say with a satisfied grin. “And now that you’ve seen my place, I want to see yours.”
He blinks. “My… orchard?”
“Yeah.”
A soft laugh escapes him, disbelieving. “You really want to see it? It’s not that exciting. Just rows of trees and a lot of old farm equipment.”
I scoff. “I’m from the city, remember? Rows of trees sound thrilling.” Then, more quietly, “And I want to see where you spend all your time. It’s obviously important to you.”
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, softened by something warmer. He hesitates, then nods. “Okay. I can show you around sometime.”
“Tomorrow morning?” I suggest, leaning back against the wall, trying my best to look casual.
His cheeks pinken as he nods again. “Um, sure. Tomorrow works.”
A moment later, he’s heading for the door, boots scuffing softly against the concrete. He glances back once, offering a small, shy wave before slipping outside.
I stand there long after the door swings shut, staring blankly at the tanks. My chest feels light and floaty like a freshly cracked beer, bubbles racing upward with nowhere to go.
Christ. I’m already drunk on him, and I have no intention of giving him up.
“You did what?!”
Okay. This is not the reaction I was expecting from Imani when I told her about the partnership.
We only closed a few minutes ago. She’s in the middle of washing a pile of dishes in the taproom kitchen, gloved hands buried in suds.
She freezes and looks up at me, eyes wide with something between concern and disbelief.
The front of her apron is soaked through with water and dotted with grease stains, her curls twisted into a loose, messy bun.
I shift my weight, suddenly feeling like I’m on trial. “Uh, I’m collaborating with Ashton Tremblay,” I repeat. “We’re making a cherry hard cider together. It’ll be good for both our businesses.”
Imani peels off her gloves and drops them onto the edge of the sink, turning to face me fully. Her expression hardens. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Troy?”
My shoulders tense. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because the Tremblays are kind of a big deal in this town,” she says, crossing her arms. “One wrong move, and you’ll have half of Claremont Shores turning against you.”
I blink. “Nothing will go wrong.”
She snorts and turns back to the sink. “It will if you keep staring at him with those heart-eyes of yours.”
My mouth falls open. “I—what?”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder, unimpressed. “Oh, please. I saw your face when he stopped by the taproom last month. You’re obsessed.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Heat creeps up my neck, shame and embarrassment seeping under my skin. Shit. Have I really been that obvious? I’ve always been a flirt—it’s second nature to me—and half the time, I don’t even realize I’m doing it.
Imani softens, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“I get it, boss. He’s hot. I mean, I’m not attracted to men, but even I can admit that.
” Her tone shifts, turning serious. “But he’s a bad idea.
If people start whispering about a sex scandal involving Ashton fucking Tremblay, it’ll end your career in this town. ”
My eyes widen. “A sex scandal?! Jesus, Imani.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I’m pretty damn sure he’s straight. I just think he’s attractive, okay? It’s not like I’m actually going to… try anything.”
She tilts her head, clearly unconvinced. “Okay, boss. Whatever you say.”
I nudge her shoulder. “I’m serious. This is strictly professional.”
“Uh-huh.”
I exhale, defeated. “Whatever. I’m gonna head home and work on some paperwork,” I grumble, grabbing my jacket from the hook by the door. “Can you lock up once you’re done here?”
“Yeah,” she replies easily, turning back to the sink. “I’ve got it. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
The cool night air hits me as I step outside.
I cross the empty lot and climb into my van, the engine rumbling to life while Imani’s warning echoes a little too loudly in my head.
As I drive back to my apartment, I keep the windows cracked, sitting in silence and listening to the distant crash of waves against the lakeshore.
When I walk through the door, Cryptid swarms me, pawing at my legs and chirping excitedly. I scratch behind his ears as he nudges my hand, a small smile tugging at my lips. No matter how long or frustrating the day has been, it’s comforting to know Cryptid is always happy to see me when I get home.
After feeding him, I collapse onto the couch and open my laptop.
My accountant, Lauren, emailed a few forms that need my attention.
It takes every ounce of self-discipline to focus on them instead of zoning out in front of the TV.
This is by far my least favorite part of running my own business.
I’ve never been a financial whiz—or even remotely good with money.
Mel always handled all that in our marriage.
Needless to say, I had a lot to learn after we split.
One of the forms Lauren sent is an employment eligibility verification for a prospective new hire—a young bartender named Shane.
He seemed like a nice enough guy during the interview.
He’ll cover shifts at the taproom whenever I’m busy, and assuming the hiring process goes smoothly, he should be starting soon.
I’ve been trying to hire a server for the taproom too, but haven’t had much luck. In a small town like Claremont Shores, I’m not surprised it takes time to find good help around here. The hiring pool is just so limited.
The cushion shifts beneath me when Cryptid jumps onto the couch, brushing against my elbow. He gazes up at me with big green eyes, a low purr rumbling in his chest. His eyes flicker to the laptop resting on my thighs, then back to me.
Okay, fine. I guess the paperwork can wait.
I shut my computer and set it on the coffee table. Cryptid instantly curls into my unoccupied lap, a warm and steady weight. I pet his fur, letting the soft, silky strands slip through my fingers. His damp nose nuzzles against my stomach.
“Rough day, huh?” I murmur.
Cryptid chirps in a response like he understands me.
He’s always been a clingy cat, but ever since Mel and I split, he’s attached to me like Velcro.
I often worry he gets lonely while I’m at work, but since he doesn’t like other cats, adopting a companion isn’t an option.
He’s friendly with people, though—he loves everyone.
Whenever I’ve brought a hookup home, he’s all over them before I can even lead them to the bedroom.
Surprisingly, being a single cat dad seems to be a big turn-on for women. Something about the contradiction between my rugged exterior and soft interior, I guess.
I bet Ashton likes cats too. He’s a gentle giant.
I place a hand over my chest, suddenly aware of how fast my heart is pounding just at the thought of Ashton. Cryptid looks up at me, head tilted like he’s noticed something is off. He lets out a curious meow.
“I know, buddy.” I sigh and stroke his fur again, shaking my head in defeat. “I’m so fucked.”