Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Troy
There’s a small marina in Claremont Shores where rich folks and seasonal cottagers keep their boats. I was surprised when Ashton told me his family has their own slip there, where they dock a very sensibly sized motorboat, as he insists on calling it.
Sometimes I forget that Ashton’s family is fairly wealthy. Then he casually says shit like that, without a hint of self-awareness, and reality rushes back in.
Evidently, the Fourth of July is a big deal in Claremont Shores.
Tourists flood the streets and lakeshore, wrapped head to toe in red, white, and blue.
The beaches here are nothing like the ones across the lake in Chicago, which were always crowded and a little dirty.
These are wide and open, bordered by towering dunes and bursts of brightly colored wildflowers.
Every year, the town launches a massive fireworks display from the beach.
Ashton smiled from ear to ear as he told me about his annual tradition with friends—taking his family’s speedboat out onto the lake to watch the fireworks bloom overhead, color spilling across the sky and rippling over the dark water.
So when he invited me to join them this year, flashing those puppy-dog eyes and dimples, how could I possibly say no?
But now, standing in Ashton’s front doorway while he openly assesses my outfit with visible disapproval, I’m starting to regret that decision.
“You’re wearing all black,” he deadpans.
I snort. “Nice to see you too, baby.”
I lean in and kiss him. He hesitates for half a second before his arms hook around my shoulders, tugging me inside as he pushes me back against the door. My spine hits the wood with a solid thunk, and he sighs softly against my lips, fingers threading through my hair.
When we finally separate, he’s wide-eyed, lips swollen, cheeks flushed a deep, lovely crimson.
“You look”—my gaze flicks from his head to his feet—“patriotic.”
It’s an understatement. He’s wearing an American-flag tank top and denim shorts, blue-rimmed sunglasses perched in his golden hair. He looks like he stepped straight out of an Old Navy advertisement.
“Duh,” he says, scoffing. “It’s the Fourth of July. You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
I shrug. “It basically is a funeral, isn’t it? You know, considering the current state of our country and all.”
He groans. “Troy, everyone knows the Fourth of July isn’t actually about patriotism. It’s about getting drunk, watching stuff blow up in the sky, and enjoying nice summer weather for once.”
I laugh and give his shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my opinions about the holiday to myself, okay? I’ll be a very agreeable boyfriend while we’re out on the boat with your friends. I promise.”
He frowns. “A very agreeable business partner.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. Business partner.”
Obviously, I knew going into this that I’d be tagging along under the guise of being Ashton’s friendly new business partner.
He said he wanted me to meet his friends and get to know his siblings.
So I’ll slap on a smile, bite my tongue, and play the part of a very polite businessman with a completely professional, entirely platonic relationship with Ashton.
But Christ, it’s going to be hard to hold myself back.
Especially when he’s wearing shorts like that—hugging his ass in all the right places.
“If you behave,” Ashton continues, trailing his fingertips along the length of my arm, “maybe I’ll reward you later.”
I suck in a sharp breath, begging my dick not to get hard as my mind conjures up countless dirty images.
“Ash,” I say in a low, warning tone.
He bats his lashes innocently. “What?”
“You know what,” I insist, shaking my head. “You’re such a menace.”
He snickers and leans down to press a swift kiss to my cheek. “We’re gonna be late,” he says, dragging me out the door. “Let’s go!”
Okay, I’ll admit I was hesitant about joining Ashton’s siblings and his pack of small-town friends, but it’s not half bad. The wind cuts through the blistering sun, cool and bracing as the boat skims across the waves, rocking and lifting just enough to send a jolt of thrill through me.
There are six of us crowded around the bow, beers in hand, chatting—well, practically shouting—over the roar of the engine and the slap of water against the hull.
Luke’s easy enough to talk to; he commandeers every conversation without even trying, which means I don’t have to carry much of it.
The brunette perched on his lap is nice too.
She complimented the cider I brought, so she’s officially earned a place in my good graces.
One of Luke and Ashton’s friends, Ethan, is lounging across from me. He’s a tall, slender guy with black hair that sweeps across his forehead. His pale skin is already a little pink from being in the sun, despite the copious amounts of sunblock he keeps reapplying.
The Tremblay sisters—Olivia and Chloe—are wedged in beside me, arguing passionately about some reality TV show I’ve never seen and probably never will. Justin is tucked at the back of the boat, staring at his phone, the glow of his screen casting blue light on his face.
Behind me, Ashton drives, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting easy at his side.
His posture is loose but assured, like he was born knowing how to command a boat across open water.
It’s ridiculously sexy. I keep stealing glances over my shoulder, drawn to the way the sun hits his hair, the quiet confidence in the set of his shoulders.
Hopefully my sunglasses are doing their job, hiding the way my eyes keep drifting back to him.
Phoebe sits close to him, one arm slung loosely around his shoulders as they talk.
I know they’re just friends now. I know that.
I respect it. But that doesn’t stop the sharp flicker of jealousy in my chest. They have history.
It’s impossible not to picture them tangled up together, naked and kissing.
The vision curdles my stomach.
I just wish I could reach back and wrap my arm around him without it becoming a thing.
I want to touch him. I’ve always been touchy with the people I care about, but with Ashton it feels forbidden.
I want to feel him solid and real against me, to press close enough to catch the warmth of his sun-kissed skin and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The sun sinks toward the horizon, melting into the lake and washing the sky in streaks of pastel pink and gold. Ashton cuts the engine as we drift among a cluster of boats gathered just offshore from the public beach—a prime spot to watch the fireworks.
The last sliver of sun dips beneath the water, and in the hush before the first firework, Ashton glances at me. It’s quick and cautious, but I catch it anyway. I offer him a small smile, something meant just for him. He smiles back.
But it’s wrong.
Too tight, too careful. His dimples don’t even show.
My attention snaps back to Luke when he makes a loud, animated noise, mimicking the sound of glass breaking.
“The guy bashed his fist through the bathroom mirror!” he continues, in the middle of telling a story about some bar fight that happened at Old Harbor Tavern during his last shift.
“Dude had blood spurting down his arm, dripping all over the carpet. I had to clean it up after the police came and escorted him out. Shit was nasty!”
Ashton leans back in his seat, one arm slung across the back cushion behind Phoebe. “Wait, wait,” he cuts in, grinning in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You had to clean it up? Are you a bartender or a maid, dude?”
The word startles me, sounding heavy and foreign rolling off Ashton’s tongue.
Dude.
The way he’s talking sounds far too practiced and forced, like he’s slipping into a caricature I don’t recognize. His posture is bigger, almost exaggerated—legs spread, chest out, chin tipped up. He takes up space in a way that feels deliberate. Defensive, like armor.
This isn’t the Ashton who leans against my kitchen counter, quiet and thoughtful, talking about cider recipes and the way the orchard looks at dawn. This isn’t the Ashton who sleeps curled up next to me, arm slung around my waist like he’s afraid I might disappear.
This version is all hard lines and sharp corners.
I don’t know which one is real.
Or maybe they both are.
The thought settles heavy in my chest as the first firework screams into the sky and bursts into a bloom of blue light.
Everyone cheers as color spills outward, shimmering over the dark water.
I take a long pull from my beer and tip my head back, watching the sky fracture into bursts of red and silver.
The booms crack through the air, echoing across the rippling lake.
It’s beautiful—and romantic.
An ache pulses beneath my ribs. I want to cross the boat and drop into Ashton’s lap. I want to wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and kiss him beneath the fireworks. I want everyone to see how much I adore this sensitive, beautiful man.
But I can’t.
So I sit where I am, sipping my beer and swallowing the bitterness that comes with it.
Across from me, Luke pulls the brunette he brought into an easy kiss, careless and unbothered. Ethan and Olivia are curled up together too—Ashton mentioned they fool around when she’s home from college in the summers. Nobody bats an eye at them.
Another firework erupts overhead, gold flecks cascading down the black canvas sky. The reflection trembles across the lake, fractured and dazzling. I catch myself staring at Ashton again, at the way the light flashes in his bright eyes.
My fingers dig into my thighs, catching in the torn threads of my jeans. Being this close to him and not being able to touch him is a special kind of torture.
He’s only a few feet away, but the distance might as well be miles.