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 way 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