Undeniable (Cloverleigh Farms #2)(8)

He met my eyes and nodded slightly, and I knew he understood. If nothing else, Oliver and I had an almost extra-sensory ability to communicate.

“Maybe it will help if I explain a little,” he said.

I gave him a fake smile. “Please do.”

He set his glass on the table and looked at my parents. “When I started Brown Eyed Girl Spirits five years ago, the market was much less crowded. And I didn’t have any grand business scheme—just a dream to handcraft something that tasted really fucking good.” He paused. “Excuse my French.”

“Your French is fine here,” April said with a laugh.

Oliver grinned at her. “Thanks. Anyway, I didn’t really know what I was doing, but I knew what I liked and I did my research.”

“And it’s gone well, hasn’t it?” my mother prompted.

“In many ways, yes.” Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. “The gin and vodka were well received, and while distribution is always a challenge for small producers like me, we manage to do decent business on site and we got into some local stores and popular Detroit cocktail bars. But the industry is getting more and more crowded—there are something like eighteen hundred craft distilleries in the U.S. now, and Michigan has more than sixty.”

“Wow,” April said. “I had no idea.”

“Standing out is becoming increasingly difficult, and while overall growth potential is fantastic in the next five to ten years, in my mind it’s just going to get harder for the little guys. We’ll either be bought up by Big Booze, so to speak, or go under. I don’t want to do either.”

“And you think partnering with Chloe might help you stand out?” my father asked.

“I think a partnership with Cloverleigh would be a sound strategy,” said Oliver. “The best opportunity for growth is within a small batch distiller’s home state. I need to expand beyond the metro Detroit area, and you’ve got built-in tourism, the winery tasting rooms, a bar and restaurant … it’s all right here. Plus with Chloe’s background in marketing, she’d be a great asset. Marketing makes all the difference—we need a good story.” He put a hand on my leg for a second, and a tingle shot up my spine. “I know she wants to make a good whiskey, like I do. But that takes more time and investment.”

“In the meantime, you’re just looking for placement for your vodka and gin?” I asked, jerking my knee out of his reach.

“I do want expanded distribution, yes, but I’m also looking for a partner, Chloe. My facility in Detroit doesn’t have all the space I need for additional stills or a barrelhouse, and as I mentioned, crafting a really interesting, flavorful rye is something I’ve got my heart set on. I’ve been experimenting a little, and I think I’ve got a winning mash bill. I bet anything you’ll agree.”

I didn’t miss the word bet, or the twinkle in his eye when he said it, but I didn’t take the bait.

“So to be clear,” I said, “what you want is a partnership with Cloverleigh—the use of its retail space, distribution network, tasting room, some real estate on the bar’s cocktail menu, and land on which to build another production facility and a barrelhouse.”

He shrugged. “More or less. But I also—”

“Then why, exactly, do I have to work for you for six months?”

“I thought you wanted to branch into distilling spirits here. Brandies from local fruit to start?” He glanced at my dad. “That’s what your business plan said. I have it in my bag if you’d like to check.”

I glared at my father. “Dad! You gave him my business plan?”

“Hear him out, honey,” my dad encouraged. “He liked your ideas.”

“That’s true,” said Oliver. “I think your plan is solid, and I’m willing to invest. But if I’m going to be making a considerable contribution toward your business startup costs, purchasing stills and grains and bottling equipment and the like, it only makes sense to be reassured that you know what you’re doing. Plus, I won’t be on site up here all the time. I’ll need you to oversee production in my absence, especially once we get started on the whiskey.”

“It makes perfect sense,” my father agreed. “All the research in the world can’t compete with hands-on training. If you’re serious about this, Dimples, you need to roll up your sleeves and put in the man hours.”

“I’m willing to put in the work, Dad,” I snapped. “No one can accuse me of being lazy.”

“Chloe, dear, we didn’t say that,” my mother said.

“Frankly, I’m pretty sure I’ve done more man hours, whatever the hell that means, on the farm than Oliver here has ever done anywhere. And I’ve had the dream of handcrafting whiskey just as long as he has, I just didn’t have his trust fund to get started.” I stood up, realizing I needed to leave the room before I said something I’d really regret. “Forgive me if I don’t jump at this opportunity to take orders from you, Oliver. But I need some time to think about this.”

With that, I set my wine glass down and stormed out of the room, down the hall, and through the kitchen, throwing open the sliding glass door to the yard.

I needed some air.

Some space.

Some distance between me and those blue eyes. That smell. Those hands.