Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Ashton
My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I weave through traffic down Lakeshore Avenue, heat shimmering off the pavement in visible waves.
Tourists spill over sidewalks in flip-flops and sunburns, coolers slung over their shoulders as they stream toward the beach, which is already a dense mosaic of umbrellas and bodies.
The air smells like sunscreen and hot asphalt, and the cab feels stuffy despite the windows being cracked.
I wipe my palm against my jeans and try not to think about how badly I want this day to go right.
When Black Cat Brewery finally comes into view, my heart gives a sharp, startled kick. The parking lot is full. Completely. Cars line the gravel shoulder and spill into the side street, and for a moment I just stare, rolling past the entrance at a crawl.
Troy’s newly hired bartender, Shane, went all in on social media this week, posting cider photos and countdowns and cheeky captions neither Troy nor I would’ve known how to write.
I’d braced myself for a slow trickle of curious customers—not a complete madhouse.
I let myself hope, just a little, that it means today’s cider release is actually a success.
Unless, of course, the brewery is full of disgruntled customers demanding refunds and cursing my family’s name.
I stare at the packed building a second too long, long enough for the car behind me to honk.
I blink and hit the gas, pulling away as my thoughts start to spiral.
What if people tried it and hated it? What if the locals think it’s sacrilege—our family’s orchard, generations deep, teaming up with the town’s newest bad boy brewer?
By the time I find a parking spot three streets away, my nerves are buzzing beneath my skin. I cut the engine and sit there for a beat, palms slick against the wheel, chest tight. There’s no turning back now. Whatever happens, Troy and I will face it head-on, together.
I draw in a steadying breath and shove the door open. Dry summer heat wraps around my shoulders, sticking to the back of my neck as I pace toward the brewery.
Shock rattles through me when I see the line at the entrance, people queued up to be seated in the taproom.
I blink a few times, half expecting this to be a mirage conjured by the heat.
Inside, countless pint glasses are filled with our cider, the unmistakable pink-tinged liquid catching the industrial lights.
The taphouse buzzes with energy. Baskets of fried food crowd the polished wooden tables, the savory aroma of pretzels and fries weaving through the air. The tall ceilings carry every conversation, so loud that individual words blur together, merging into a constant, vibrant hum.
“Ash!”
I spin toward the bar. Troy is waving, a wide grin splitting his face, and my chest tightens.
He got a haircut a few days ago. The sides are shaved down, his fringe trimmed so it no longer covers his eyes.
He’s wearing a black graphic T-shirt with a band logo I don’t recognize, decorating his chest with skulls and gothic lettering.
Acid-washed jeans hug his thick thighs and butt in all the right places, practically bursting at the stitches.
My boyfriend is a work of art.
Boyfriend.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the word. I’m happier than I’ve ever been—and somehow more terrified too. Troy understands me in a way no one else ever has. He sees every flaw, every rough edge, and still chooses me.
And now he’s looking at me with those soft brown eyes, his tongue sweeping slowly across his lower lip, nudging the metal ring there in a way that’s unmistakably deliberate.
It takes every ounce of self-control to stop myself from bolting across the room and kissing him.
Instead, I cross the space in slow, careful strides, taking a moment to settle myself and observe the customers. Several glasses sit empty on tables, bone-dry, which must be a good sign.
When I reach the bar, Troy surprises me with a quick embrace.
It’s fleeting, casual—just a side hug that would read as entirely platonic to anyone watching—but it makes my skin buzz.
His body is warm and firm against mine, and the faintly masculine scent of him drifts over me: sandalwood, fresh pine, a lingering earthy tinge of hops.
As we pull apart, his hip bumps mine, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“We sold out.”
My mouth drops open. “Excuse me?”
He laughs, bouncing lightly on his toes like an overexcited kid.
“Everyone loves it. I keep telling folks we’ll have another batch ready next week, and honestly…
we probably need to start another one even sooner.
” He inhales sharply, grin so wide it practically splits his face.
“And there’s more! Some guy came in earlier who owns a bar in Grand Rapids. He wants to put our cider on tap.”
I brace a hand on the bartop, heart hammering, suddenly lightheaded. “Holy shit…”
“We did it,” Troy says gleefully, squeezing my shoulder.
I shake my head. “You did most of the work—”
“No. We both did.” His brown eyes lock onto mine, burning with a sincerity that makes my chest tighten. “This wouldn’t be possible without your cherries. Your dad was wrong to doubt you.”
I stare down at my feet, biting the inside of my cheek as his words shake through me like an earthquake. Troy’s thumb taps my chin, the contact brief and careful, to lift my face and meet my gaze again.
“You should be proud of yourself,” he says firmly.
My throat feels tight. I swallow, but it’s like trying to gulp down a cherry pit.
Growing up, praise was almost nonexistent.
Good grades earned at most a nod. When I learned to drive a tractor at ten years old, my father spent the whole time critiquing my steering, even though I could barely reach the wheel.
Every chore and responsibility thrust on me was an expectation, not something to be thanked for.
But mistakes? Dad never missed those. Mowing the lawn in crooked lines, misplacing a tool, forgetting to set up the sprinkler right—he made sure I knew exactly where I fell short.
I’ve carried that with me so long that I barely notice when I do something right.
All I see are flaws, imperfections, the ways I haven’t measured up.
And yet… here’s Troy. He sees the hours, the sweat, the grueling labor I’ve poured into the orchard—the things I’ve been trained to dismiss. He sees the good in me. And more than that, he wants me to see it too.
Stepping behind the bar, Troy pulls a brown paper bag from under the counter and fishes out two cans of cider. He grins, cracks the tabs, and hands one to me. The aluminum presses cold against my palm.
“I saved the last two,” he says, lifting his can in a toast.
I tap mine against his, our fingers brushing just for a second, and a spark of warmth shoots through me.
“To our partnership,” he adds, winking.
A knowing smile tugs at my lips as I lift the can to my mouth. “To us.”
Moonlight shimmers across the rippling lake as I drive the road that hugs its edge, the sky stretched overhead in an endless scatter of stars. The roads are empty this late—or early, technically, since it’s past one in the morning.
I stayed late at the brewery with Troy, lingering with customers, answering questions about the cider, soaking in the easy energy of the taproom. After closing, we cleaned up the space together, stacking stools and wiping down tables.
When he asked if I wanted to come back to his place afterward, I said yes before I could overthink it.
Now my fingers drum against the steering wheel as I pull into the parking lot of his apartment complex, my jaw tight, molars grinding. There are so many things I want to do to Troy once we’re alone in his apartment—and that knowledge is both thrilling and terrifying.
I park at the curb. Every window in the red brick building is dark except his, glowing with a soft yellow light. I draw in a steadying breath and climb out of the truck, forcing my legs to move. The metal staircase rattles beneath my boots as I ascend, the night air cool against my flushed skin.
At his door, I hesitate, then knock.
There’s shuffling inside, footsteps moving closer, followed by a few muffled, high-pitched meows. I can’t help the smile that curves my lips.
The door swings open a moment later, and there he is—barefoot, grinning, his gaze dragging over me in a slow, deliberate sweep.
“Hey, baby,” he says, stepping aside to let me in.
No matter how many times he calls me that, it never fails to make me tingle.
I duck my head, heat blooming in my cheeks as I step inside. I slip off my shoes by the door and crouch long enough to give Cryptid a few pets as he winds around my ankles, purring like he’s missed me.
“So,” Troy says, clearing his throat a little too deliberately, “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”
“Oh. Okay.” I nod toward the couch. “I’ll, uh, wait here, I guess.”
He huffs a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Ash.” His eyes meet mine, dark and earnest. “I was asking if you want to… you know. Join me.”
My eyes widen. “Oh! Um…”
He squeezes my bicep. “It’s fine if you don’t want to—”
“I want to,” I interrupt, probably sounding a little too eager, but I don’t care. The thought of seeing Troy naked, his tan skin dripping wet and covered in suds, is enough to have me bursting at the seams with excitement.
Relief softens his features as he takes my hand, leading me down the short hallway to the bathroom. Cryptid makes a valiant attempt to follow, but Troy gently shuts the door behind us, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.
The bathroom is small and practical. A pedestal sink is crowded with a blue toothbrush, a toothpaste tube rolled tight to squeeze out the last bit, and a dwindling bar of soap I recognize from one of the farmers market vendors.
The gray linoleum floor has seen better days, a few tiles peeling at the corners.