Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Troy
Imani was right: going into business with Ashton Tremblay was a terrible idea. I should’ve known better. When I’m around him, my self-control evaporates.
I shouldn’t have kissed him.
The moment replays in my head, my grip tightening on the steering wheel as I pull onto the road. The way he froze for half a second before melting into me. The hitch in his breath. The tang of cherry juice on his tongue—sharp, sour, and unmistakably him.
Now that I’ve had a proper taste of him, my body won’t let it go.
It wants more. More of that quiet tension behind his eyes, more of the way he tries so damn hard to be responsible while his instincts betray him.
I can still feel the solid line of his body under my hands, the way he trembled like he was standing at the edge of something dangerous.
I should’ve backed off the second I saw that flicker of panic cross his face.
I don’t do this with straight guys—or closeted queer guys, for that matter. I’ve been out and proud since I was fifteen, and before Mel, I only hooked up with men who were openly queer. Kissing a man like Ashton Tremblay, in a town like Claremont Shores, was a reckless decision.
Still, I can’t bring myself to regret it. Not entirely.
By the time I pull into the gravel lot behind the brewery, the sun has dipped low enough to stain the sky orange and bruised purple. The place is dark, the neon red CLOSED sign glowing in the large bay windows.
I let myself in through the side entrance and lock it behind me. The sound echoes in the empty space. Without the hum of conversation or the clink of glasses, the brewery feels cavernous, stripped down to concrete floors, red brick walls, and stainless steel.
With the carton of cherries tucked under my arm, I push through the double doors into the brewhouse.
I drop the box onto the worktable and, with more force than necessary, jab the power button on the speaker perched on the bench.
Music floods the space—something loud and guitar-heavy, all grit and distortion.
The volume’s probably excessive, but that’s the point.
I need the noise. I need something to drown him out.
I dump the cherries into the hopper of the fruit masher, the skins glossy and dark under the harsh overhead lights. The machine groans when I start cranking, metal protesting as the gears catch. Juice spills out thick and red, splattering into the collection bin below.
I lean into the handle and crank harder. The motion is brutal and repetitive, shoulders burning as resistance builds. My breath turns rough, sweat gathering fast along my back, the air growing hot and sticky around me. The music pounds in my ears, my muscles tensing as I work.
Halfway through, I stop long enough to shrug out of my flannel and toss it onto the floor. The black tank top clings to me, damp with sweat, my chest rising and falling as I wipe my hands on my jeans and get back to it.
My arms ache. My hands prickle with sharp pain as they grip the rough wooden handle.
Juice splatters my forearms in dark streaks.
Despite it all, I welcome the burn and exhaustion.
It’s easier to focus on this—on something I can control—than on the memory of Ashton’s mouth, the way he kissed me like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want it.
I shouldn’t have wanted him in the first place.
It was naive to think there was something between us. After all, I thought Mel loved me. I was sure of it. I built a future around that certainty, and look how that turned out.
So what makes me think I’d be any better at reading Ashton Tremblay?
The masher squeals as the last of the cherries break down, juice rising to the top of the collection cup. I slow the crank, arms trembling, chest heaving as the machine finally winds down.
Wanting him was reckless enough. But believing he might actually want me back?
That was just plain stupid.
The farmers market is already buzzing when I show up, people packed shoulder to shoulder along the sidewalks, inching forward at a snail’s pace.
The air is thick with the smell of kettle corn, fried dough, and fresh-cut flowers.
I weave past sunburned families and panting dogs tugging at their leashes until I spot the Tremblay Orchards stand.
Ashton’s there, of course. He’s behind the table with his sleeves rolled up, his expression pulled tight into that familiar, unreadable tension.
Olivia stands beside him, bright and animated, chatting easily with a customer as she bags cherries.
When Ashton looks up and sees me, something flickers across his face—surprise, followed quickly by a shuttering kind of restraint.
I step up to the booth. “Hey,” I say, keeping it light. “Busy day, huh?”
Olivia beams. “Hey, Troy! Yeah, it’s been nonstop since opening.”
Ashton’s posture stiffens, looking anywhere but my eyes. “Uh—Liv, can you manage the booth for a minute?” he says. “Troy and I need to talk through some business stuff.”
Her brows lift, but she nods. “Sure.”
Ashton steps away without looking at me, tilting his head toward the road that runs past the market. I follow him without comment.
We walk in silence along the sidewalk that parallels the beach, the noise of the market fading behind us. To our right, the lake stretches out in an impossible blue beneath a wide, cloudless sky, sunlight splintering across the water like broken glass.
I clear my throat, breaking the silence. “So,” I start, hooking my thumbs through my belt loops, “I started a trial batch.”
Ashton glances at me, then quickly away again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Used the cherries Olivia gave me.” My gaze falls to the sidewalk, tracing the cracks beneath our feet. “It’ll ferment for about three weeks. After that, I’ll filter and carbonate it. Then we can see what we’re working with.”
He gives a stiff nod. “Sounds good.”
I sneak a look at him. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. The lake breeze ruffles his hair, but he barely seems to notice.
We keep walking, the sidewalk busy with joggers and tourists. The conversation dies again, stretching thin and uncomfortable between us. I can’t take it.
“Hey,” I say, slowing. I reach out and catch his elbow, tugging him gently off the main path. “Come here.”
He startles but doesn’t pull away as I guide him into the narrow alley between two storefronts—a coffee shop and a vintage boutique. The sun disappears behind the buildings, the shade offering welcomed relief, the air faintly scented with old brick and espresso grounds.
Ashton folds his arms, reluctantly facing me. “What’s up?”
“Are we gonna talk about it?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
His brows knit. “Talk about what?”
I huff out a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t do that,” I say. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
He shrugs, gaze sliding past my shoulder. “I really don’t.”
I step closer, close enough to see the tiny freckle at the corner of his mouth, the pulse jumping in his neck. “The kiss,” I say flatly.
His breath stutters. He squeezes his eyes shut, chin dipping as loose golden waves fall across his forehead. His hands curl at his sides, knuckles turning white.
“Troy…” He exhales, finally looking up. His green eyes catch the light, and for a split second I forget how to breathe. Only Ashton Tremblay could look this devastatingly beautiful in a dark, dingy alley. “I… we shouldn’t have done that.”
It’s exactly what I was expecting, but his words still slice through me like a blade between my ribs.
I straighten, smoothing myself out, pulling on confidence like a well-worn jacket. I bite the inside of my cheek until a sharp, metallic taste blooms on my tongue.
“Of course,” I say, nodding once. “It won’t happen again.”
His throat bobs. “For the record, I’m not… gay,” he mutters.
“Me neither,” I reply with a small shrug. “I’m bisexual.”
His lips part. “You are?”
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my tone light despite the knots twisting in my stomach. “Is that gonna be a problem?”
He shakes his head quickly. “No. No, I’m not, like, homophobic or anything. I’m just—” He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Surprised.”
“Alright,” I say. I hesitate, then add, quieter, “And for the record, I’m sorry about the kiss. I guess I misread things and got carried away.”
Ashton blinks, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Right.” The word comes out clipped, like there’s more he wants to say, but the rest dies on his tongue.
“I shouldn’t have crossed that line,” I continue, steady and careful. “From here on out, we’ll keep it totally professional.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. Of course.”
We linger for a moment longer, facing each other in the dim alley beside an overflowing dumpster.
It’s about as unromantic as it gets—which feels appropriate.
I just wish my body would take the hint.
Despite his clear boundaries and obvious disinterest, my heart keeps thrumming like it missed the memo.
Rolling back my shoulders, I gesture out to the street. “After you.”
Ashton turns first, heading back into the sunlight and the noise of the market. I follow a step behind, leaving a deliberate, painful space between us.
The taproom smells like citrus and hops, the low hum of the coolers vibrating through the floor as I run my new employee through the basics behind the bar.
Sunlight pours in from the lake-facing windows, scattering across the natural wood bartop.
For a midafternoon weekday, it’s mercifully slow—perfect for Shane’s first shift at Black Cat Brewery.
Shane has that easy, open kind of charisma that makes him easy to talk to. Early twenties, pearly-white smile, sleeves of traditional tattoos wrapping pale skin beneath his T-shirt. His black hair is faded on the sides, cropped on top, his curls catching the light when he moves.
“Draft system’s touchy,” I tell him, tapping the stainless steel handle. “If you yank it too hard, you’ll get nothing but foam, so be careful.”