Chapter 18 #2
I clear my throat, settling my hands in my lap.
“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some house party. Cops showed up. I had a bag of weed in my pocket.” I roll my eyes.
“This was 2012—before it was legal in Illinois. I spent thirty days in jail. The judge went easy on me since I’d just turned eighteen. ”
Ashton stares at me for a moment, blinking.
Then he bursts out laughing.
“Fucking weed?” he wheezes. “The town rumor mill has you pegged as a murderer. Or like—some kind of mob boss.”
I snort. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He shakes his head, grin spreading slow and bright, dimples flashing. “Why didn’t you just shut it down? The rumors?”
I shrug, forcing nonchalance into my shoulders. “People can believe whatever they want. The ones who matter know who I really am.” I tilt my head, smirking. “Besides… I kind of like being the town’s resident bad boy.”
He rolls his eyes. “My dad believes those rumors, you know. Pretty sure he thinks I’ve gone into business with a serial killer.”
My jaw tightens. “Your dad can believe whatever he wants. I don’t care what he thinks.” I hold his gaze. “I care what you think, Ash.”
The teasing fades from his expression. “I don’t think you’re a serial killer,” he says gently. “Or a mob boss. Or even a convincing bad boy, honestly. You’re far too sweet for any of that.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Well, don’t tell anyone. I gotta maintain my reputation.”
He studies me for a second longer. “You really don’t care what anyone thinks?”
“Nope.” I drop my gaze to my plate, mindlessly twirling my fork.
“I had a reputation growing up too. My childhood was… chaotic. My dad always had girlfriends cycling in and out. None of them stuck around long enough for me to get attached. People knew him as the town’s notorious bachelor.
” I shrug. “And I was the kid he got stuck with.”
His brows rise. “Stuck with?”
I rub the back of my neck. “After my mom died, the court gave him full custody. Even though he’d barely been present in my life before the accident.” A dry, humorless laugh slips out. “He never let me forget I was an obligation. Something forced on him. Something he never wanted.”
Ashton goes still. “Troy…”
“It’s fine,” I say automatically, even though it’s not. “He stepped up. Put a roof over my head. Paid for school. Did what he was legally obligated to do.” I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “He just made sure I understood it was temporary. I was on my own the second I turned eighteen.”
“Do you still talk to him?”
I toy with the silver chain around my neck, the cool metal biting into my fingertips. “Not really. We do the polite phone call thing—holidays, birthdays. Surface-level updates. That’s about it. I don’t care to have much of a relationship beyond that.”
Ashton’s mouth pulls into a frown. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine not having my dad in my life. That’s really sad.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, swallowing the urge to say what I’m actually thinking—that maybe his father’s dominance over his life has done more damage than absence ever could. But that’s not my lesson to hand him. He’ll have to come to it on his own.
“I don’t think it’s sad,” I say quietly. “Sometimes a happy ending isn’t reconciling with the people who hurt you—it’s choosing space and protecting your own peace.”
Ashton hesitates, drawing in a slow breath. “Oh.” His gaze drifts past my shoulder, unfocused for a moment, like something just clicked into place—or maybe splintered. He blinks and looks back at me. “Your mom’s accident... what happened? If you’re okay talking about it.”
I stare at a spot on the table, my jaw tightening.
“It was the middle of winter. My mom was driving out of the city for work, along some rural highway. The police said a deer jumped into the road. She swerved to avoid it, lost control of the car, and hit a utility pole.” I swallow hard. “She died on impact.”
Ashton wordlessly reaches across the table, palm up, waiting. I slide my hand into his. His fingers curl around mine, warm and sure.
“The deer survived, though,” I add bitterly. “Not a scratch on it.”
Ashton clamps his bottom lip between his teeth and gives a small shake of his head. “I’m sorry, Troy,” he says quietly. His gaze holds mine, steady and sure. “I know your mom would be so proud of the man you turned out to be. You’re kind. You’re smart. You’re passionate—”
Under the table, Cryptid lets out a sudden, demanding meow, begging for scraps.
We both laugh, a little wet, the tension loosening between us.
“And you’re a great cat dad,” Ashton adds, dimples flashing.
I lift his hand and press a kiss to the back of it. “Thanks, Ash.”
We fall into an easy rhythm after that—talking about small things, swapping stories from the day, laughing quietly over stupid customer interactions and shared exhaustion. By the time our plates are empty, the nervous edge from earlier has completely faded, replaced by something warm and steady.
Ashton reaches for his plate. “I’ll help clean up.”
I immediately shake my head. “Nope.”
“Troy—”
“Uh-uh.” I stand and take his plate before he can argue. “You’re my guest. You sit.”
He opens his mouth to protest again, then thinks better of it, lips pressing together tightly. “I can at least—”
I point toward the couch. “That was an order.”
He exhales a short laugh, defeated. “You’re bossy.”
“Only when necessary,” I say, winking.
Color rushes to his cheeks as he ducks his head and heads for the living room. I snicker under my breath, more than a little pleased by how easy he is to fluster.
When I join him on the couch, I’m carrying two short glasses, each filled halfway with the newest trial batch of cider. It’s a shade pinker than the last attempt, a faint blush bleeding through the amber liquid. Tiny bubbles race to the surface, fizzing softly in the quiet room.
“Is this the new batch?” Ashton asks, taking one from my hand.
I nod. “Yeah. I switched the apple base to Honeycrisp—figured it might cut some of the bitterness. Tweaked the cherry juice ratio too.”
He bites his bottom lip. “Well, hopefully this taste test goes better than last time.”
I swear, it’s like he sets me up to say dirty things on purpose, like maybe he secretly enjoys it. The thought barely has time to register before the words slip free, loose and unfiltered.
“I don’t know,” I say, smirking, my voice low and unapologetically suggestive. “I kind of liked how things went last time.”
His eyes widen, and he nudges my shoulder, ducking his head as his blush deepens. I laugh quietly and lift my glass, clinking it gently against his. He finally looks back up, green eyes wide and vibrant.
“To trying new things,” I say.
He hums in agreement and brings the glass to his lips.