Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Ashton
Heat rolls off the fermenters in slow, pulsing waves, filling the humid air with the scents of yeast and hops.
I wipe my palms on my jeans and lean against a stainless-steel table, pretending to pay attention to whatever the hell Troy is talking about.
The brewhouse is empty except for the two of us, surrounded by the constant hum of machinery and Troy’s voice echoing off the brick walls.
“So, glass gives you that premium, artisanal feel,” he says, tapping a finger against an amber bottle. “It’s more expensive than aluminum.” He shifts his weight, then adds, “But cans are lighter. Better for transport, cheaper long-term, more forgiving with temperature fluctuations.”
I nod along as he grabs two cans, explaining the volume differences and the shape of the pull tab. He’s meticulous, every detail rolling off his tongue with professionalism, but I’m absolutely not paying attention.
What I am doing is staring at the sheen of sweat along his throat, the way it glistens under the industrial lights. His black T-shirt is darkened at the collar, clinging just enough to hint at muscle beneath. The sleeves of his denim jacket are rolled up to his elbows, exposing inked forearms.
Dark lines and shapes wrap around his tan skin.
I’ve seen some of his tattoos before, when his sleeves have been rolled up, or he’s moved at just the right angle to lift the hem of his shirt.
A raven. Phases of the moon. Something floral I haven’t gotten close enough to identify yet.
The thought of finally getting him undressed makes my stomach flip.
And his hair—Jesus.
The ends of his mullet are slick with sweat, curling and sticking to the back of his neck. I have a completely unhelpful, deeply distracting urge to brush them away. Or tug them. Or both.
“—so if we’re thinking seasonal release versus year-round,” Troy continues, “that might affect which container makes more sense. Especially with branding.”
I hum in agreement. Convincing, I think.
My eyes track the way his mouth moves when he talks. The little crease that forms between his brows when he’s focused. The way his hands move adamantly, chipped black polish on his fingernails.
“Ashton?”
I blink, snapping back to reality like I’ve just surfaced from underwater. “What?”
Troy gives me a knowing grin. “I asked which direction you’re leaning. Glass or cans.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Right. That.”
He crosses his arms, the motion pulling his shirt tighter across his chest. “You weren’t listening.”
“I was,” I say automatically.
“Mmm.” He tilts his head, studying me. “You were checking me out.”
Heat floods my face. “I—what? No.”
He laughs, soft and teasing, and steps closer until our chests almost touch. “This is a very important business decision we should make together. You know. As partners.”
I shake my head. “Honestly, you’re more knowledgeable about this stuff than me. I trust whatever decision you make. If you want my opinion on farming equipment, then I’m your man,” I add, chuckling softly. “But I’ll leave this up to you.”
Troy’s tongue swipes across his upper teeth. “You’re telling me you don’t care about our collaboration? I’m hurt.”
A fond smile cracks across my lips. “I’m just saying, I can think of other things I’d rather be doing right now,” I say, my voice low, “than talking about brew containers.”
His brown eyes darken, pupils blown wide with interest. He grips my hips and drives me backward until I thump against a metal tank, the vibration shuddering straight through my bones.
My breath turns hot and uneven as I stare down at him, the space between us growing steamier than the machinery alone could ever explain.
He has no idea what he does to me. Ever since our first date at his apartment last week, he’s been carefully honoring my request to take things slow.
He lets me set the pace, lets me initiate every hug and kiss, and I haven’t allowed things to go any further.
Partially because I’m trying to be cautious—but mostly because I’m terrified of being bad at it.
But now he’s looking up at me with unmistakable hunger, his tongue worrying the ring on the inside of his bottom lip. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush. Just waits, patient and steady, giving me the space to choose.
I inhale a shaky breath. “I want to kiss you,” I admit, my voice barely audible over the constant churn of machinery.
His smirk widens, slow and wicked. He leans in, his words brushing hot against my neck. “We’re at my workplace, Ash,” he murmurs. “You’re so unprofessional.”
A soft laugh slips past my lips before I claim his mouth, kissing him with reckless abandon.
He tastes like mint gum and cigarette smoke—a combination I’ve come to crave like my own personal nicotine.
His beard scrapes warmly against my skin, his mustache prickly in the best possible way, sending a shiver straight down my spine.
Christ, I want to feel his facial hair against my crotch again—the way it rubbed me raw when he swallowed me down to the base.
Troy groans into my mouth and tightens his grip on my hips, tugging me flush against him. His body is warm and solid, a steady, grounding presence that eases the ache in my chest. I hum softly against his lips, letting my worries dissolve until there’s nothing left in my head but Troy.
When we finally pull apart, his lips are red and swollen, his hair a wreck from where my hands tangled through it. We just stare at each other for a beat, both of us catching our breath.
Troy clears his throat. “So,” he says, voice still rough, “what’s the verdict? Glass or aluminum?”
A laugh rasps out of me before I lightly smack his chest, forcing a little distance between us. I need to cool down before I embarrass myself.
“Aluminum,” I reply, pointing at the can on the table.
He nods. “Great minds think alike. I’ll contact our distributor and place a shipment. We’ll need some artwork, though.”
I lift a brow. “Artwork?”
“Yeah. A logo, a design. Alcohol’s a lot like books—sometimes the cover’s what sells it.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I could ask Olivia. She’s a graphic design major. She’s done all the logos and artwork for the orchard.”
Troy’s smile widens. “Yeah? That’d be sick.”
I glance at the clock, then back at him, reluctant. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
“Perfect.”
I step back, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake off the haze he’s left me in. “I should probably get going. I’ve got some work to do. My friend’s meeting me to help me repair some farm equipment.”
Troy nods, understanding flickering across his face. He leans in to press a soft kiss to my cheek. It’s delicate and sweet in a way that startles me, heat creeping up my neck.
“Drive safe, Ash.”
I mutter something that might be a goodbye and head for the door. As soon as I’m outside, I rub my jaw, smiling to myself, loving the faint burn where his beard scraped against me.
I hope it lingers—just a little while longer. A quiet reminder of him, etched into my skin like a brand. Somewhere deep inside, a reckless spark flares, whispering the impossible hope that maybe, someday, I could truly belong to him.
The barn smells of dirt and gasoline, sunlight slanting through the warped metal siding in dusty ribbons.
Phoebe’s leaning over the sprayer, balanced on her knees, a bolt clenched between her teeth as she wrestles a new part into place.
She’s wearing stained denim overalls and a threadbare tank, grease smudged across her knuckles.
“Hold it steady,” she says around the bolt.
I angle the flashlight, trying not to blind her. “Like this?”
“Perfect.” She reaches out without looking. “Wrench.”
I pass it to her, and she slots it on, tightening with quick, confident turns. The ratchet clicks echo through the barn, sharp and rhythmic. A moment later, she gives the hose a firm tug, testing it, then spits the bolt into her palm and screws it in by hand before giving it one last crank.
She exhales hard and leans back against the tractor, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. “There. Brand new pressure valve.”
I turn off the flashlight and grin. “You’re a lifesaver. Seriously. Thanks for coming over.”
Phoebe waves a dismissive hand, already brushing dirt off her overalls. “Please. No problem. My dad’s got the exact same sprayer on our farm. We’ve already had to replace the valve twice.” She sighs. “I could do it with my eyes closed.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I glance back at the sprayer. “Good to know I’ve got an expert on call.”
She leans back against the tractor, readjusting a ponytail that barely contains her thick curls. “So,” she says lightly, “you gonna tell me why you didn’t ask your dad to help with this instead?”
I hesitate, my gaze dropping to the concrete floor. “We got into an argument a few weeks ago. At dinner.”
She lifts a brow, waiting.
With a sigh, I drag a hand down my face. “He doesn’t approve of my new business deal with Troy Fischer.” I clear my throat. “We’re making a cherry cider together, and you know how my dad is. He hates change. Hates taking risks.”
Phoebe frowns sympathetically. “Did you two make amends?”
I scoff and shake my head. “No. Dad doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t admit he’s wrong. He just acts like nothing happened and calls you dramatic if you try to talk about it.”
She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ash. I’m sure, in some weird, twisted way, his anger is just concern in disguise.” She studies me for a beat. “He’s also probably afraid of tattooed men from the city with mysterious pasts.”
A humorless laugh slips out. “Yeah. Troy’s reputation definitely doesn’t help.”
Her lips curl into a knowing smirk. “I think he’s hot. Don’t you?”
Panic spikes through my chest, crawling up my throat. Even though Phoebe knows I’m questioning my sexuality, it still knocks the wind out of me every time I’m confronted so directly. I force myself to breathe.
“I mean,” I say carefully, exhaling, “yeah. He’s… cute. I guess.”