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. Skip, 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.
With Connor Finch.
Connor sat at the bar and sipped on ice water. Tonight was about getting to know Emerson as a woman, not as a Dyer. He knew his reasons were complex. Sure, he was curious about the family that had the ability to send his father into a spiral of despair. But he was also curious about the playful, witty woman he’d sparred with. In his mind, he managed to compartmentalize the two.
Catching sight of himself in the mirror that hung behind the bar, he straightened the collar of his black shirt. He’d offered to pick Emerson up, but she’d been adamant about meeting him there. She’d dismissed his chivalrous attempts with a simple No, thank you, and he admired her straight-talking ways.
When the door finally opened and Emerson walked in, his gut relaxed. For some reason, he’d been nervous she was going to bail, and he was sure it was some throwback from his father’s conditioning that anything with the name Dyer attached to it was incredibly unreliable. It was almost as if he expected her to let him down right off the bat.
She wore a sundress in dark green, with thin straps and a skirt that flowed just above her knees. Long, gold earrings reached her toned shoulders. Connor watched as the greeter pointed in Connor’s direction.
A momentary tug of guilt fluttered through him at the deceit of knowing a lot more about her than she knew about him. When her eyes found his, her smile was so genuine and bright it almost burned, and for a second, he felt like confessing.
“Hey, Connor.” She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, a kiss so brief he wondered if he imagined the contact of her lips against his skin.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” he said, pulling out the bar stool next to his. “Please, take a seat that isn’t mine.”
Emerson laughed. “I thought we agreed that technically the seat was ours.”
“Well, you are more than welcome to come sit on my lap and share this one,” he replied, wiggling his eyebrows.
“I think I’d have to know you a lot better before I try that. I don’t just sit on anyone’s lap.” Emerson threw her denim jacket over the back of the stool and climbed up.
Connor tried to be a gentleman, but his eyes still travelled the length of her legs as her dress hitched up her thighs. He fought the urge to follow its path with his fingers to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.
“I’ve been looking forward to this since you suggested it. Have you eaten here before?” she asked, looking around the restaurant.