Chapter Twenty-Six
Troy
It should be impossible for someone to be sexy while wearing overalls.
I never thought anyone could pull them off without looking like they were headed to plow a field with a piece of hay stuck between their teeth, but Ashton Tremblay keeps proving me wrong.
The denim hugs his ass in all the right places.
I’m thirsting over a man in goddamn overalls.
Absolutely pathetic.
My eyes track his movements as he steps into the brewery, flushed and breathless, blond hair damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead.
His cheeks are bright red, chest rising and falling a little too fast, like he sprinted the whole way here.
There’s a wild, panicked edge in his eyes that doesn’t match the lazy afternoon lull.
My stomach drops.
I round the bar before he even spots me. “Hey—” I catch his elbow gently and steer him toward the hallway that leads to the storage room, away from the handful of customers nursing pints. “What’s wrong?”
He swallows, dragging a hand down his face. Up close, I can see the faint tremor in his fingers. “My dad called.”
That alone is enough to tighten every muscle in my body. “Okay…”
“He wants to have dinner.” Ashton’s gaze flicks to mine, then away again. “With both of us.”
I blink. “As in… with you and me?”
“He specifically said he wants to meet you.” Ashton’s lips twist like the words taste sour. “He said he wants to get to know the man who’s putting our family’s money at risk.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “The family’s money? It’s your fucking money, Ash, not theirs.”
His lips press into a thin, straight line. He doesn’t correct me, but he doesn’t agree either.
I sigh, scrubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “Do you want me to come?” I ask quietly. “Is it important to you?”
He nods. “Yeah. It is.” His voice softens. “My whole life, I’ve chased my dad’s approval. If there’s anything I want him to approve of—more than anything—it’s you.”
Something hopeful and dangerous flickers to life in my chest, but I force myself to smother it. I can’t afford to feel too much, too fast.
“Okay,” I say, squeezing his hands. “Then I’m in.”
His shoulders loosen a fraction, relief flickering across his face. “Thanks.”
I reach up and tug lightly at the strap of his overalls, grounding both of us. “Next time,” I murmur, “maybe lead with the dinner invite instead of barging in here looking like the orchard’s on fire.”
A shaky laugh slips out of him. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I peck his cheek before letting go. “We’ll handle your dad.”
Even if the idea of sitting across from the man who thinks I’m gambling with his son’s future makes my pulse pound in my ears.
For Ashton, I’d walk into that fire with my head held high.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror for what feels like the hundredth time.
My face looks bare and strange without its usual piercings.
Ashton insisted taking them out would “just make things easier,” as if I’m some giant, bitter pill his dad has to swallow.
My usual dark, vintage layers have been swapped for a blue button-up—the only shirt in my closet that has an actual collar.
Christ. I don’t even recognize myself.
I guess that’s the point.
I drag in a slow breath, step out of my van, and climb the front steps of Ashton’s childhood home—a sprawling farmhouse with a wraparound porch, white shutters, and flowerbeds bursting with late-summer color. The place looks like it belongs on a postcard.
My scuffed combat boots thud against the porch, the wood creaking faintly under my weight. I wipe my palms on my jeans, then lift a hand and knock.
Footsteps shuffle on the other side of the door. A lock clicks. The door swings open.
A woman stands there, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
She’s short, with blond hair cut just above her shoulders—the same shade as Ashton’s.
A billowy yellow sundress drapes over her full figure, soft and bright against the farmhouse backdrop.
She looks tired, like the day’s been long, but her eyes are warm and kind.
“Oh,” she says, offering a gentle smile. “You must be Troy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I straighten instinctively and extend my hand. “Troy Fischer.”
She takes it, her grip soft and timid. “I’m Debbie. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
She steps back and opens the door wider. “Come on in.”
The second I cross the threshold, the smell hits me—garlic and tomatoes simmering, something savory and rich that makes my stomach growl traitorously loud.
“Chloe and Justin are at a friend’s house tonight,” she says, waving a hand vaguely toward the hallway. “So it’ll just be the four of us.”
I nod. “Alright. Thank you for having me.”
She smiles warmly. “Of course. I’ve got spaghetti going. Ashton said you eat about anything and aren’t picky.”
I rub the back of my neck, heat crawling up my collar. “Yeah, that’s true. I’m not hard to please.”
“Well, good. That makes a cook’s life easier.” She studies me for a moment with cautious, assessing eyes. “It sounds like you two have gotten to be close friends this past summer.”
I bite my lower lip, choosing my words carefully. “Yeah. Ashton’s a great guy.”
Her smile softens, like I’ve confirmed something she already knew. “He really is.”
I tuck my hands into my pockets and glance around the house.
It’s large but lived in—scuffed baseboards, cabinet doors that hang a little crooked, chips in the hardwood floors.
Evidence of half-completed projects is scattered between the living room and kitchen: stacked planks of wood, a toolbox left open, paint samples fanned across the counter.
Ashton mentioned his dad has been keeping himself busy since he retired, unable to relax. He strikes me as the kind of man who prefers to fix things on his own, far too prideful to hire outside help.
A fireplace anchors the living room, its red bricks rustic and weathered, a framed photograph resting on the mantle.
It’s a professional family portrait: all five siblings lined up neatly, their parents standing behind them.
Ashton’s father wears a neutral, practiced expression, all sharp lines and composure, while the rest of them offer tight, manufactured smiles.
I recognize the photo immediately. I’ve seen it reproduced on jars of Tremblay Orchards cherry jam lining grocery store shelves—an image polished into an advertisement, a promise of wholesomeness and unity. Looking at it now, stripped of branding and slogans, it feels hollow.
My finger brushes lightly against the edge of the frame before I pull my hand back, grounding myself, and turn to Debbie.
“Is he around?” I ask.
She waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, his father swooped him up the second he walked through the door. Didn’t even let the poor boy set his keys down before dragging him outside.
” She rolls her eyes, though there’s a thread of fondness there.
“Something about a part in his car that needed fixing. They should be back in shortly.”
I swallow the grumble of annoyance that claws at the back of my throat. From what I’ve gathered, Ashton’s dad seems to claim the title of father only when it’s convenient—when there’s something to fix, something to lift, something to do. A favor to extract. An order to give.
“That sounds about right,” I mutter.
Debbie smiles and gestures toward the living room. “You make yourself at home. I’m going to finish up dinner.”
“Thank you,” I say, forcing my shoulders to relax as she disappears into the kitchen.
I pace the living room aimlessly, fidgeting with the rings on my fingers as I resist the urge to step outside for a cigarette. God, I’m craving one, but the last thing I need is for Ashton’s dad to smell the smoke on my breath.
My attention lands on a large painting hanging on the far wall, washed in golden light from a nearby lamp.
Olivia’s initials are tucked into the bottom corner, signed in crisp black ink.
It’s a landscape of the orchard in mid-bloom—rolling hills draped in white blossoms, petals spilling like snowfall across the trees.
Up close, I can see each textured brushstroke.
I squint at the canvas, tracing the movement of the paint, the care in every layered stroke.
It’s beautiful.
Staring at the painting, how it anchors the living room and demands attention, it’s clear the orchard is important to all of them. It’s the center of their home. The center of their lives.
Now, I see where Ashton gets it from.
The back door creaks open, followed by the heavy thud of boots hitting tile.
I turn instinctively toward the narrow hallway that leads to the mudroom.
Ashton steps inside first, kicking dirt from the bottoms of his boots before toeing them off by the door. His hair is wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from the late-summer heat, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s a smudge of grease along his forearm.
His father walks in behind him. He’s tall—just as tall as Ashton—but much broader.
His shoulders stretch the fabric of his white T-shirt, thick arms distressed by age and labor.
A round belly presses against the buttons, hanging slightly over his belt.
His thinning hair is tucked beneath a baseball cap, silver with a whisper of dwindling blond.
They move down the hallway toward me. Ashton glances up and spots me. Something flickers across his face—relief, maybe—but it’s gone just as quickly as his father steps fully into view.
Cold gray eyes lock onto mine.
They’re nothing like Ashton’s. No warmth. No sunlight. Just steel.
Ashton must get his from Debbie.
I step forward before my nerves can root me to the floor. I straighten my posture, square my shoulders, and extend my hand.
“Mr. Tremblay,” I say evenly. “I’m Troy Fischer. It’s nice to finally meet you.”