Chapter 13 #2
I turn my face to break the kiss, planting my palms against his chest and pushing just enough space between us to breathe. Troy’s gaze sears into my skull, but I can’t look at him—not when I’m rock-hard from kissing him like a sex-crazed teenager.
“Ash—”
I huff out a breath, shoving at his shoulder. “Stop.”
He stumbles back a step, hands lifting instinctively, concern flashing across his face. “Alright,” he says quietly.
My eyes squeeze shut as I pinch the bridge of my nose, pulling in a few slow, steadying breaths. I ground myself in the details around me—the birds chirping overhead, the hush of wind through the leaves, the soft crunch of twigs and fallen foliage beneath my boots.
“Ash,” Troy says again, his voice distant and warped through the fog in my head. “You okay?”
I swallow hard and open my eyes. His cheeks are flushed, his lips red and a little swollen—a physical reminder of what we just did.
“We shouldn’t have done that.” The words scrape up my throat, raw and painful.
For a split second, something vulnerable flickers across his face. Hurt. Surprise. Maybe even regret. It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears, smoothed over by that familiar, infuriating composure of his.
“Yeah,” he says lightly, forcing a crooked grin as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Sure. I mean—no big deal. Just… got carried away.”
I nod slowly, stepping out from the shade of the tree. “Right.”
Troy clears his throat and looks past me, toward the edge of the orchard. “So, uh—where do you load the cherries up for shipping? I’d like to see how that all works.”
Relief hits me so hard my knees almost buckle. Thank God, he wants to change the subject.
“Yeah, sure,” I say with a shrug. “I can show you. It’s just down by the barn.”
“Perfect,” he says, already turning away.
We walk back to the four-wheeler in stiff silence. I swing my leg over the seat and start the engine, the familiar rumble settling my nerves. Troy climbs on behind me, slowly and carefully, leaving a deliberate inch of space between us.
This time, to my traitorous disappointment, he doesn’t wrap his arms around my waist.
The drive across the orchard is tense and stretches on far too long. When we hit a dip in the dirt trail, the ATV lurches, and Troy’s body slides briefly against mine. The contact is fleeting, but it still sends a sharp buzz through my nerves.
“Sorry,” he mutters, quickly shifting back.
My jaw clenches, my hand tightening on the clutch as I keep my eyes fixed ahead.
When we reach the barn, I’m relieved to find we’re not alone. Olivia stands on the flatbed of a truck, tightening bright yellow ratchet straps around a container of cherries. Her blond hair is tucked beneath a baseball cap stamped with her university’s mascot—a goofy, cartoonish sturgeon fish.
Juan is beside her, stacking up more crates. He’s worked with our family for over twenty years. He’s soft-spoken, dependable, and my dad’s former right-hand man. He tips his head toward me in a silent greeting as Troy and I climb off the ATV.
I hesitate longer than I should, dusting imaginary dirt off my knees before forcing myself forward. “Hey,” I say, the word landing awkwardly between us. “Uh, this is Troy. He owns Black Cat Brewery.”
Olivia straightens, giving Troy a once-over before hopping down from the truck. Juan wipes his hands on his jeans and follows. Troy steps in smoothly, already smiling and extending a hand.
“Troy Fischer,” he says. “Nice to meet you both.”
Juan shakes his hand first, nodding. “Juan.”
Olivia’s grip is firm, her smile curious. “I’m Olivia,” she says softly. “Ashton’s little sister.”
A teasing smirk dances across his lips. “My deepest condolences. I can’t imagine it was easy, growing up with Luke and Ashton bossing you around.”
She snorts. “Please. I might be younger, but I’m the real boss around here.”
I roll my eyes. “In your dreams, Liv.”
She shoves my shoulder playfully. Despite being short, she’s strong. I stumble before catching myself, boots scraping against the hard-packed dirt.
“Sooo,” Olivia drawls, her gaze flicking between Troy and me, “does Dad know about your business collaboration yet?”
I wince. “No. I haven’t told him.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “I was going to bring it up during our next family supper.”
Olivia’s mouth twists into a grimace. “Oh,” she says. “That’ll be… interesting.”
Juan lets out a low chuckle, folding his arms across his chest as he looks at me. “Putting the Tremblay name on alcohol?” He clicks his tongue. “Your dad’s not gonna like that, mijo.”
I stiffen, jaw tightening. “Yeah, well…”
“Ash,” Juan adds, softer now. “Your dad’s old-school. He doesn’t like change. He’s proud of this place—of what the name stands for.”
“I know,” I say, meeting his gaze. My voice stays steady, even if my pulse isn’t. “But it’s my decision now. Not his.”
Juan studies me for a moment, something thoughtful passing behind his eyes. Then he laughs, short and warm, shaking his head as he steps back. “Alright. It’s your funeral.”
He turns and walks off, leaving the words hanging heavy in the air.
My stomach knots as I watch him go. Family supper suddenly feels less like a meal and more like a sentencing.
Dad has always had a talent for finding flaws in everything I do—every choice picked apart, every risk framed as an inevitable mistake.
This business deal is practically an invitation for criticism, ammunition served up on a silver platter.
I can already hear it: lectures about tradition, about reputation, about how I’m cheapening our family name.
God forbid he ever meets Troy in person and finds out he’s pierced, tattooed, and flirts with everyone he meets, regardless of gender.
That revelation alone might send him straight into a second heart attack.
I exhale slowly, trying to smother the fire raging in my chest.
Troy clears his throat beside me, shifting his weight. “Well,” he says, forcing an easy smile, “I should probably get going. I want to start messing around with cider recipes.”
“Already?” Olivia says, eyebrows lifting.
“Yeah,” he replies. “If I’m doing this, I want to do it right. Experiment a little.”
Before I can respond, Olivia steps away and crouches near one of the stacks of small wooden crates by the barn. She grabs one filled to the brim with cherries—deep red and freshly harvested—and hoists it up with ease. When she turns back, she nestles it into Troy’s arms.
“Take these,” she says.
“Thanks, Olivia.”
He balances the crate against his hip and gives her arm a gentle, grateful squeeze. Something tight twists in my chest as I watch him meet her gaze with that effortless, disarming charm of his. I don’t miss the faint flush creeping into Olivia’s cheeks.
Not that I can blame her. Troy seems to have that effect on people—myself included.
Finally, Troy lets out a breath and turns to me. “Uh… I’ll reach out once I’ve got a first batch done,” he says. “We can taste-test. See where we’re at.”
“Yeah,” I reply, too quickly. “Sounds good.”
He nods, like he’s bracing himself, then sticks out a hand. I hesitate before taking it, our shake brief and stiff—nothing like before.
“Bye, Ashton,” he says quietly.
So now I’m Ashton again? He called me Ash earlier, and shamefully, I liked it.
“Bye,” I echo, watching as he turns and heads for his van.
I stand there as he loads the crate into the back, climbs into the driver’s seat, and pulls the door shut. The engine rumbles to life, gravel spewing beneath the tires as he backs out and drives away, disappearing down the long stretch of dirt road.