From yeast and hops innovations to bottling and distribution, I’d been involved with all of it. I’d quickly discovered the nuts and bolts of a business weren’t for me and concentrated on becoming a brewmaster. That was the magic and where I became obsessed with the chemistry and, more importantly, the instinct of it. But beer wasn’t nearly as sexy as cider in my opinion.
Blends, soils, different fruits, and even spices could take the flavor profile from bland to outstanding. But I’d always been hamstrung by the almighty dollar.
Working with major bottling brands was good in theory, but they only cared about the bottom line, not the creativity of creating a small batch cider.
Until Beckett found me at a wine tasting in the Catskills last month. I was fairly sure he’d stalked me. Damn that location option on my social medias. I had to remember to turn it off, butI’d been interested in the apple wines and impulsively checked into the festival to hopefully link up with a few friends.
And now…I had a new job.
It included a bump of thirty percent in pay from my last job which was nice, but the creative control had really been the draw. With an option for stock if I wanted to stick around.
Fucking stock.
In a company.
Not just an employee number, bitch ass 401K, and a badge from human resources. I had a drawer full of badges from all the places I’d worked at—none had ever lasted long enough to get a scar on the plastic, let alone make me feel as if I’d belonged.
I jingled the keys in my hand again. Until this moment, when I’d stepped onto the porch of this rustic freaking building.
I tried to shake it off. I didn’t want to get excited, but every time I ignored my gut, it knocked me on my ass.
And I’d ignored it for too goddamn long.
The key slid into the lock and jammed a little. It took some jiggling to get it moving, but I had a feeling it was more due to disuse than a sign from the universe to hop back into my truck.
The lock finally clicked and I muscled the massive sliding barn door open. The track needed about a gallon of grease and oil, but that was easy enough to fix.
Cement floors gleamed in the patchy streaks of sunlight struggling through the old windows. But I only had eyes for the weathered discovery bench in the center of the room. A series of medium-sized tanks to ferment, steam, and clarify were waiting to be filled. The brushed nickel tanks were dented and well-abused, but also taken care of.
Lovingly.
Beakers, torches, and droppers were lined up in individual slots with amber jugs and bottles ready for mixing. Under the bench were more supplies like yeast and a mini-press to do myown fresh juice to toy with. The back of the barn was full of larger equipment for bigger batches, but this space was definitely made for the creator.
A lab in the truest sense of my world.
Trunk freezers lined the wall, with one big ole fucking sunbeam leading me right to the one in the center. The urge to explore and catalog made my blood hum. To rearrange to my own preferences. Make it mine.
I needed it to be mine.
I tried to flip the freezer open and found the very first bit of electronic barrier.
“4-4-9-9.”
I turned toward the voice, my shoulders tight in reaction.
Hayes Manning leaned against the doorway, his hands tucked in his pockets in a deceptively relaxed stance. He wore cargo pants with the pockets bulging with God knew what and a Brothers Three Orchard T-shirt.
Hmm. That was different than the weathered sign I’d seen when I pulled into the orchard. Rebranding?
Interesting. I hadn’t really looked around when I arrived. I’d been too interested in the taproom setup and followed the signs accordingly. Hell, even the large industrial-looking barn labeled the taproom hadn’t been able to dissuade me from driving toward this particular old building.
I’d known it was mine before I could fully identify where I was supposed to be going. I wasn’t exactly a guy who believed in fate, but I knew when something felt right.
And this felt like I was supposed to find it. Or rather I was supposed to be found, because I sure as hell wouldn’t have imagined myself out here without an interesting invitation.
The Mannings didn’t take no for an answer anyway. Not that I’d tried very hard. I was pretty sure Beckett had done hishomework. He’d hit me with far too many arrows on the first meet.
Hayes was the quieter Manning brother. Beckett knew how to turn on and off the charming tap depending on where he was, but based on my initial meet, Hayes was more reserved.
