Thoughts of Emerson onstage, laughing her way through her speech, made him grin. There had been pure joy in her words when she thanked everyone on behalf of her family.
In-between bites of food, Connor returned to Dyer’s social media pages, looking at photographs of the distillery. They’d obviously begun some kind of social media campaign at the start of the year. It was clear and consistently on brand. He wondered what firm they hired to do it.
But then the campaign had stopped. News articles revealed there had been significant damage to an on-site event venue that resulted in a significant amount of negative press, but that seemed to have eased up over the past couple of months.
Stopping social media presence was a mistake, one he’d fix when…
When? When he bought the damn thing? He needed to stop thinking like he already owned it. Dyer’s Gin Distillery had floated to the top of his proposed acquisition list even though he knew his father would have strong issues with it.
Videos from within the distillery gave him a sense of scale, but he wasn’t definite on the kind of volumes they produced. From his assumptions on the number of stills, the size of the warehouse, and their distribution channels, he would put them in the midsize distillery range.
The recipes were attributed to Emerson’s brother, Jake, a master distiller with an obvious palette and nose for botanicals. If he came up with these formulas, he could come up with others. And others meant growth. Especially if he could parlay his skills into other spirits, like a standout rye or a homegrown tequila or vodka. But it also meant that the success of the recipes hung on one person. Dyer’s was definitely more secure than other companies given Jake was a family member. But even family members could be convinced to leave and go to other enterprises, depending on the size of the paycheck.
Yet, in spite of not having all the information or a secure innovation strategy, he felt the usual rush of excitement in his stomach that came when he was onto something and closing in on the target.
Except he wasn’t certain whether his target was the distillery or the woman who ran it.
He pushed his finished dinner aside and reached for his wallet. He opened the smooth leather and pulled out Emerson’s business card from the slot in the middle. When people had started to crowd her, she’d reached for her purse to pull out some business cards. One of them had landed on the table next to his champagne glass, and he’d picked it up.
Her cellphone number was listed on it.
Connor tapped the corner of the card on the countertop.
There was so much he should be doing instead of sitting in his kitchen and debating the merits of messaging Emerson. There were sales projections to go over and an urgent last-minute request from Cameron for the third quarter review. His uncle was so predictable, feigning urgency in an attempt to trip up Connor in front of his father. He’d done it so reliably for the last six quarters in a row that much of what Cameron had asked for was already complete, but Connor had no intention of sending it until one minute before his deadline. Two could play that game.
Hell, perhaps he should watch the replay of tonight’s basketball game on his new TV.
He looked over the open-plan living space of his newly purchased and renovated condo toward the large TV he’d mounted on the wall. He’d simply slid his own furniture straight into the place, and made orders for the rest. A custom tall dining table, thick slabs of wood that Derek, his stepdad, had polished to a shine and turned into side tables. There were a handful of boxes in his new home office that needed unpacking and filing. The restful shades of blue and ivory reminded him of the surf even though he lived in Denver.
Connor took another look at the card, studying it intently for any clues as to what he should do next.
Fuck.
He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Interest in a woman his father would likely disown him over. Interest in a distillery, a business opportunity that his father would not back, which would probably make him lose the woman.
Uncertainty was not one of his usual traits. Outcomes of decisions were usually crystal clear to him. But in this instance, it was difficult to separate Emerson from her business.
Perhaps he should just cast both lines, the woman and the distillery, and see which took the bait faster.
But why did the idea upset his gut?
Normally, he had no issues with messy lines, big deals, and consequences.
Connor got up, business card in hand, and paced to the window.
Make a decision, Finch.
He pulled his phone from out of his back pocket and added Emerson’s number to his contacts. Then he began to type.
Hey, how was your trip back from San Francisco?
It wasn’t the greatest opening line in history, but what the heck was he supposed to say? That she’d been on his mind constantly for the last few days and did she want to come over to his apartment and talk about a takeover while perhaps making out on his sofa? He didn’t think he’d ever thought a more wrong sentence.
Connor rubbed his hand along his jaw and walked to the kitchen to clean up the mess. He made a point of putting his phone on the side table next to the sofa to resist the urge to check it again.
When the kitchen was pristine, his coffee maker set for morning, and his pre-workout snack prepped into containers, he grabbed another glass of water and made his way to the sofa.
She’d replied. Who’s this?
Obviously, she didn’t know it was him. Why was he acting so dumb?
Connor. Owner of the seat. Buyer of the champagne. Table mate for the medal win.
There was a pause. Oh, right. You forgot Mr. Grumpy from the flight and leaver of the evening.
Okay, so no “Hello, great to hear from you, I was thinking of you.” He couldn’t help but grin.
Sorry. Urgent family business came up. I didn’t leave deliberately. And only Mr. Grumpy because you’re a thief.
Better a thief than a liar, she replied.
I tried Dyer’s Medallion.
Emojis of hands clapping filled his screen. And, what did you think of it?
It’s good. Really good. You deserved the Best in Class.
He regretted not being there in person when it had been announced, but he’d been delighted for her when he’d seen the announcement on social media. The best in all of the white spirits was a massive accomplishment.
Thanks, Connor. I’ll pass your comment on to my brother. He’s the genius. I just get the stuff made.
It was interesting how she was happy to assume the behind-the-scenes role. She’d said as much in her speech, suggesting that as a family of three, she was the third pick for being there.
Well, I think you’re being humble. Running a distillery is probably challenging. There was a beat where the conversation could diverge. If it went toward details of the company, he’d be happy. If it focused on her, he would be happy. It was a win-win for him, his preferred kind of outcome.
So, Ironman, huh?
Wait. What? Okay, so unexpected response. But that meant she’d checked him out. That shouldn’t make him feel as good as he did. You looked me up online?
I did. I was going to send you a message to say thank you for the champagne. Your athletic feats popped up before your business profile.
Damn. For a minute, he thought it was because she was interested. I get bored if I sit still for too long.
He waited for her response.
There’s a lot of gray between sitting still being bored and throwing yourself off the bow of a boat. Ever considered squash?
Connor laughed. I happen to be good at squash. And tennis. And golf.
Color me surprised, she replied. I prefer to do quality over quantity. A three-miler run well, rather than twenty-six miles run feeling as though I were dying. She followed it with crying laughter emojis.
Quality over quantity. The second time she’d mentioned it. And while he fully understood she was just joking, he wondered for a moment if she felt that w
ay about his company. The gin they distributed was very drinkable, reasonable quality for its price point, but nowhere near the quality of Dyer’s. If that was how she felt, he’d completely understand it.
Before he thought of a response, another message appeared. I’m off to bed. Super early start tomorrow. Thanks for your kind words about the gin. I’m pleased you liked it.
No. He didn’t want their conversation to end. He wasn’t ready to be left alone with his thoughts.
Have dinner with me on Friday.
Nothing.
No answer.
Had she turned her phone off without waiting for a response from him? Was it a clear no? He watched the end of the game, brushed his teeth, did his evening meditation, and set his alarm.
With one last check to see if there were any messages, he turned his phone to silent.
And as he placed it on the side table, the screen lit up again.
I’d love to.
Chapter Three
“Constance isn’t getting up to temperature.”
Emerson looked at the copper pot still and then back to Jake. “What do you mean she’s not getting up to temperature?”
They named their stills. Constance, because she was most reliable. Patience, because she had an odd temperament that appreciated soft handling. And Melody, because of the assortment of whistles and hisses she’d make over the course of a run.
Jake shrugged and threw his arm around her, a grim smile on his lips. “You know what I mean, Em. You just don’t like the implications.”
Emerson pushed his arm off her shoulders and grabbed a hair tie from the pocket of her overalls. She pulled her hair up in a messy bun and stepped closer to study the dials on the panel next to the bright copper kettle. The vapor temperature dial had barely flickered away from room temperature. There was no heat in the still.
“Okay, smart-ass,” she replied, unable to resist a grin despite the dire situation. Her brother had always been able to make her smile. “Is anything getting through to the helmet and cooler?” She tilted her head back so she could look up the long column that rose out of the kettle.
Jake shook his head. “No. I’ve done everything I can think of. I didn’t even get enough to get the head off.”
Urgh. The head was the first part of the distillation, the gin that was all over the map with regards to concentration. Jake would often make a call to either add it back into the start of the distillation process or simply discard it.
Which meant this batch hadn’t even gotten started before the kettle had given up the ghost.
Emerson thought through the production schedule and momentarily cursed Jake’s style of distilling each botanical separately rather than together. It took so much time. They could produce so much more if they distilled everything at once.
But then…it was the reason Dyer’s Medallion was winning medals. The oils of the botanicals vaporized at different rates, with the citrus generally coming off first. Instead of hovering in the super dry end of gin that came from trying to get the best out of the orange while getting the worst out of the juniper due to distilling the lot together, Jake’s approach made sure the notes of all the botanicals were crisp and clear. The spirit became rounder, richer. The flavors, fresher. They rarely lost focus. It was the reason the brand had done so well. That, and Jake’s nose for botanicals. His latest additions, Vietnamese black peppercorns and Thai lemongrass, had been well worth the increased supply costs.
Interest in orders had increased since the Best in Class medal. There was no doubt in her mind that it was the volume they had been pushing hard for since the gin had hit the market that had killed their still. There was barely a moment to rest or service machines between batches. As a family-owned business, the distillery was operating more often than not on the weekends.
And while she knew everyone in the building was rooting for the volume, she needed to get more familiar with the financials of the company. Her father had held the purse strings ridiculously tight.
Emerson sighed. “I’ll go make a call to get a service engineer in, then I’ll take a better look at the financials. I started something on the plane the other day that I wanted to go over with you and Liv. Let me get to work.”
Jake glanced up at the mezzanine and their father’s office. Her office. “Good luck.”
Emerson walked through the distillery and looked toward the high, beamed roof as rain lashed against it. The old Denver millhouse was the perfect size and location, but boy, did it need renovation. It was the one thing she and her father had disagreed on. It needed investment. With the distillery as collateral, if needs be. They could invest in a more environmentally friendly production process by purchasing sustainable biomass boilers to power the distillations.
Perhaps now was the time to clean up her presentation for the bank. With a broken still and the threat of reduced production of a medal winner, perhaps the bank would help. Emerson sat down at her desk and opened her laptop.
They needed this last run of the day to go smoothly. She needed it to go smoothly so she could get ready for her date with Connor. The last thing she wanted was to cancel because, heck, it had been two years since her last serious boyfriend. Since then, there had been a few casual things here and there, but she actually wanted to spend time with Connor.
She had a thought and quickly dialed Jake. “Can we manage on the two stills this weekend?” she asked when he answered.
“Only if you want to cancel orders. We already had weekend runs planned for all three stills. Dyer’s Medallion is flying off the shelves, especially since that trade review last month. Add that to the usual Thanksgiving and Christmas sales bump, I was even hoping to try and get ahead.”
Emerson ran her fingers over her brow. “Can it wait until Monday at least? So we don’t have to pay them extra for a weekend callout.”
“Nice try, Em. But I think you know the answer to that. Can we take a chance and not run anything? Sure. But is it advisable? No.”
Emerson groaned. “I know. I guess I was just hoping for a different answer. I know how full the schedule is. Would you consider an option to distill some of the ingredients together to save time?”
“Emerson,” her brother said slowly. “We’ve had this discussion. It will affect the product and—”
“Okay. I get it. I was just thinking out loud with you. I’ll figure something out.”
She put her phone down and recalled her last conversation with her father.
“I’m sorry, Emerson. You made your point clear. I thought I’d made mine,” Paul said, folding his arms on the desk. “We need to manage. We need to see some of the returns from Dyer’s Medallion, give it a little bit longer than three months. What if it’s a flash in the pan? Plenty of good gins have peaked and then flopped. What if that’s what happens here, and then we’ve spent the insurance and still have no venue?”
“We might just win a medal at one of the most prestigious liquor festivals in the US. How much proof do you need? Dad, listen, if it flops, it’s because we can’t make enough.”
Emerson leaned forward, frustration bubbling in her chest. “We’ll be sensible. Not overextend. Although, if we did take out a loan at the same time, we could do a faster renovation . . . perhaps take a loan out over a longer term. We’d increase production immediately, there would be a significant bump in sales. Dad, we’re turning away orders.”
“And scarcity helps build—”
“Please don’t tell me scarcity drives interest and prices, Dad,” she begged. “We could have prices and volume. Enough businesses want the product. We even got an inquiry from a pub chain in the UK.”
“Emerson,” her dad said with a tone she was familiar with. Exasperation. He’d used it when she’d begged him for six months for a dog. He’d used it when she’d desperately wanted to go to Disneyland instead of camping in Yosemite. He’d used it when she’d insisted that the distillery should continue to be a family concern and hence she was skipping college. Ski
p, their golden lab, had been a loyal friend for ten years. Disneyland had been the trip of a lifetime. The diploma from her degree in economics hung in her office down the hallway. Two out of three was a good success rate, but she knew when her father wasn’t going to budge.
Her temples had begun to pulse. He’d died of a heart attack less than twenty-four hours later. Thankfully, they’d made their peace, but the knowledge of that argument being one of their last conversations sat in her gut like lead.
Channeling the upset that thinking about her father had caused, she opened the company’s most recent bank statement. They had enough to call the service engineer out, but not enough to buy a new still. That would require the insurance or a loan.
The phone weighed heavy in her hand. She hated making phone calls. Hated the way they asked questions she didn’t have the answer to, making her feel inept.
Just get it done, Em!
She dialed the number and made the call, hanging up quickly once she’d arranged for an engineer to come.
Not feeling remotely sociable, she debated messaging Connor to let him know something had come up at the distillery and she couldn’t make it. But the idea of doing that made her feel even worse. Connor had been the one little spark of joy that had made her feel human again.
As she considered, a message popped up on her screen from Ali.
Wear the green dress…makes your boobs look good! Have fun. Ax
It made her laugh, and maudlin thoughts weren’t going to achieve anything. Emerson set a timer for an hour and threw herself into the weekly distillery orders.
And when the sixty minutes were done, she intended to drive home and get dressed up, promising herself that once she’d left the building, she’d do everything she could to find the old Emerson and have fun.
Love in Numbers: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Love Distilled Book 1) Page 5