He took the bag off of her shoulder and set it on the floor in the corner by the stairs. It’d be fine and no reason for her to trip over her own two feet with the weight of it.
“No drinking on the job today,” he said. “Because I don’t want you slurring your words with potential clients.”
“Hey,” she said. “Maybe we can try that another night then.”
He sent her a wink. “Come on back where everything is done.”
They walked to the production area. He introduced her to the men working. He had ten right now. There was cider in all stages in different areas from fermentation, to carbonation, even canning.
“I won’t ask you to give me an explanation of how you do it. I won’t understand it anyway.”
“It’s not that hard,” he said. “You need apples and yeast. Then add other flavors as you go. Sugars, honey, spices. Things like that. The rest is kind of time. That’s the condensed version.”
“You make it sound as if you stir it and put it in a can and wait a few days, then pop it open.”
“Something like that,” he said, his hand on her lower back as they walked.
He’d been perfecting his base recipe for years. Sneaking it as a kid and getting in trouble.
It was paying off for him now.
“How are the flavors coming from the apples on the farm? The limited edition ones?”
“They aren’t ready yet. I’ll know more in a few weeks.”
“What if they aren’t good?” she asked, frowning.
“They will be. I’m not worried.”
She nodded. “I like how cocky you are,” she whispered.
“Good thing, because it’s not changing.”
“I wouldn’t want to change anything about you.”
That was a first coming out of a woman’s mouth around him.
“We store our apples in the cellar,” he said. They moved outside and the doors were open as the men were gathering what was needed for the mash.
“That’s a lot of apples,” she said. “The trees still had a bunch on them when I drove through.”
“This is the delivery I got today. Not the ones from the farm. We’ll be picking more this week.”
“Can I eat one of those?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, pulling one out of the bin close by. “If you couldn’t, then I wouldn’t be able to use them.”
She bit into it. “It’s not as good as yours. What kind is this?”
“McIntosh,” he said. “It’s what I use the most.”
“Yeah, not as good. Yours are sweeter.”
He laughed. “I thought so too. That’s where the sugars come into play to get it right.”
“And why you get a bellyache if you taste too much?”
“Shhh,” he said, taking her arm and bringing her back in.
