I pivot, gesturing toward the nearest tank. “Alright. So, this is where beer production actually starts. We mill the grain first, then mash it with hot water to extract the sugars.” I point toward the adjoining equipment. “That creates the wort, which we boil, add hops, and cool down.”
Ashton follows closely, nodding along, eyes darting between the tanks and the piping overhead. “And that’s where fermentation starts?”
“Exactly.” I stop in front of a towering stainless steel fermenter and rest my palm against its cool surface. “The yeast gets added here. Temperature control is everything. Too hot, too cold—you ruin the batch.”
He studies it like he’s committing every detail to memory. “You’re a really smart guy,” he says quietly.
“I’m a fast learner,” I reply earnestly. “When I want something, I commit one hundred percent of myself to it.”
Our eyes meet. In the low light of the brewhouse, his green irises deepen to the color of rain-soaked moss.
“Impressive,” he says, a small smile twitching on his lips.
Christ. If he keeps looking at me like that—keeps complimenting me like that—I might do something reckless. Like pin him against the nearest fermentation tank and kiss him until he forgets how to breathe.
Squaring my shoulders, I force myself to cross the floor toward the fruit press. It’s one of my newer investments, bought specifically for experimenting with cider recipes. A massive wooden barrel with a hand crank, built to extract juice the old-fashioned way. Automated presses are more common these days, but there’s something deeply satisfying about doing it by hand—turning sweat and aching muscles into something tangible.
I pat the rim of the press. “This,” I say, glancing back at Ashton, “is where your cherries would come in.”
He hums with interest, leaning closer to examine it. “Tart cherry varieties are better for hard cider, right?”
“Yeah, for sure. The acidity cuts through the sweetness of the apples. It’s a great flavor combination,” I explain. “You grow both sweet and tart, right?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I watch his brow crease as he straightens, his attention drifting from the press to the maze of piping overhead. The hiss of steam and the low bubble of fermenting tanks fill the silence between us. He rocks back on his heels, eyes wide with wonder.
“So,” I ask, keeping my tone casual, “what do you think?”
Ashton exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? It’s impressive. And the hard cider…” He trails off, then nods. “I think it’s a really good idea.”
A cautious grin spreads across my face. “Sounds like there’s abutcoming.”
His jaw ticks. “Yeah. There is.”
“Let me guess.” I roll my eyes. “Your dad?”
His shoulders tense. “He’s not going to like it.”
“Good thing he’s not the one making the call.” I step closer, dropping my voice. “Ashton, you’re a grown man. You don’t need his permission to run your business the way you want.”
He swallows, clearly aware of the shortened distance between us, but he doesn’t step back. His hands curl at his sides, knuckles whitening.
“What doyouwant?” I press.
His gaze flickers between my eyes. I toy with the ring in my lip with my tongue, looking up at him, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against my face.
Ashton swallows hard. “I want…” He takes a breath. “I want us to be business partners.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. Satisfied, I extend my hand. “Then let’s make it official.”
His hand slides into mine, warm and calloused, and the contact sends a jolt straight up my arm. I give it a firm shake, sealing the deal.
“Alright,” I say, all business now. “I’ll have my accountant draft up a contract and email it to you by the end of the week. You can look it over, make sure everything feels right.”
Ashton nods, his grip lingering a beat longer than necessary before he lets go. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
“Great,” I say with a satisfied grin. “And now that you’ve seen my place, I want to see yours.”
