Chapter 20 #2
I squeeze his shoulder. “We’ll be fine. I promise. Fourth of July is next week—one of the biggest times of the year for alcohol sales.”
“I hope you’re right.” Ashton tips the can toward me, eyebrows raised. “Wanna share this with me before I go back to work?”
I raise an eyebrow, a smirk curling my lips. “Drinking on the job, Ash? You’re so naughty.”
His face flushes as red as the cherries surrounding us. “Shut up.”
I snicker and lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’d love to share a drink with you, baby.”
His grin turns triumphant as he leads me a short distance into the orchard, stopping beneath a broad cherry tree where the branches cast a patch of cool shade over the grass. We sit close, knees brushing. Ashton cracks open the can with a sharp hiss and takes a long sip before handing it to me.
I watch his face as he swallows, the way his shoulders ease just a little. “So,” I ask, taking the can, “how’s harvesting going?”
“Good,” he says, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Really good, actually. But I’m already counting down the days until it’s over.” He rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish. “Cherry season just… wipes me out.”
Before I can respond, something moves in my peripheral vision. I glance toward the barn just in time to see a fuzzy brown blur scurry across the dirt and disappear into a hole near the foundation.
“What the hell was that?” I ask.
Ashton bursts out laughing. “That’s just Larry! He’s a woodchuck.”
“A what?”
He laughs harder, tipping his head back. “A woodchuck. Groundhog. Same thing.” He narrows his eyes at me, grin stretching wide. “Never seen one before, city boy?”
I wrinkle my nose. “That thing was massive.”
“Yeah. They get fat around here.” He shrugs. “They eat all the cherries that fall to the ground.”
I blink at him, mouth parted. “And you named him?”
His smile softens, a little sheepish. “Yeah. I’ve been trying to earn his trust this summer by feeding him veggie scraps, but he’s skittish. Won’t come near me.”
Something warm and tight blooms in my chest. I can’t help wondering what the public would think if they saw this side of Ashton: not the polished figure they know, but a gentle, kindhearted man, patiently coaxing an overweight groundhog to eat from the palm of his hand.
His expression turns a little rueful as his gaze drops to the grass. “My dad hates them. He had traps set up all around the barn—really bad ones. They’d kill them slowly.”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I press my thigh firmly against his, needing the reassurance of physical contact. Something tells me Ashton needs it too.
He blinks a few times, his eyes clouded, as if he’s caught in a painful memory.
“He always made me clean them out. Worst job on the property. So the first thing I did after I signed the deed—after the orchard officially became mine—I got rid of every single trap.” He glances back toward the barn, where the hole remains undisturbed.
“The woodchucks never hurt anyone. They’re just trying to live. ”
He’s too fucking cute.
He’s not the same man folks in Claremont Shores describe, all sharp lines and intimidating presence, his father’s calculated heir.
To them, Ashton is a strict businessman cut from the same unyielding cloth.
Someone stern and tough, who spends his days alone in the orchard, comfortable in his solitude.
But that’s not who he is. Not really.
I get to see the parts no one else does—the tenderness, the quiet rebellion, the way he chooses mercy when cruelty was all he was ever shown. Sitting here with him in the quiet, watching him worry over a skittish groundhog, something clicks into place inside my chest.
I like him. God, I really like him. And even though I’m terrified of having my heart broken again, I want him. I want to be his.
Ashton shifts beside me, still looking out at the barn, unaware of the way my heart has just tipped irrevocably toward him.
“Ash,” I say gently, setting my cider aside in the grass.
I take his hands, squeezing them gently. They’re warm, sweaty, and coated in dirt, but I don’t mind the grime. The soil of this farm is part of him, woven into his bones and blood.
He glances down at me, lips parting. “Yeah?”
I inhale a deep breath of warm, muggy air. “Will you be my boyfriend?”
Ashton freezes.
For a split second, panic flares in my chest. I drop my gaze to our interlaced fingers, to the way his thumb hooks around mine. I can’t bring myself to look at him if he’s about to reject me.
“Troy,” he exhales at last, squeezing my hand. “Honestly? I thought we already were.”
My head snaps up. “Wait, really?”
He laughs, color blooming across his cheeks. “Yeah. I mean… I’m yours, right? I don’t want anyone else.” His eyes flick briefly to the can of cider, the aluminum glistening with condensation in the sun. “Besides,” he adds, grinning, “we already have a baby together, don’t we?”
A shaky laugh blows past my lips. “Yeah,” I agree, cupping his face gently. “We do.”
I’m so happy I could burst, my heart thudding in my chest so hard it almost hurts. For the past year, I didn’t think it was even possible for someone to want me like this. I thought I’d had my one shot at love, and I’d ruined it—let it slip through my fingers by not being good enough for her.
And then there’s Ashton. The way he looks at me makes hope bloom in places I thought were dead for good.
He makes me feel like maybe I’m not a total fuckup after all.
Like maybe all the heartache, nights spent sobbing into my pillow, questioning my worth and blaming myself, was supposed to lead me here. To him.
I close the distance between us and press my lips to his, slow and intentional. He sighs contentedly into the kiss, his rough hands anchored to my waist.
Somewhere deep inside me, something dangerous is brewing. I can feel it fermenting under the surface, pressure building and threatening to blow the lid clean off if I’m not careful. If I let it spill too fast, too strong, it’ll send Ashton running.
A voice that sounds an awful lot like Mel echoes through my head.
You’re too much, Troy.
Too intense.
You suffocated me.
The words still sting, coiled tight around my heart like barbed wire. For now, I’ll keep the intensity corked tight, sealed and aging in the dark where it can’t hurt anyone. Where it can’t scare him off.
It’s safer that way.