“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.
It had been years since they’d touched me, but I hadn’t forgotten how it felt.
I hadn’t forgotten anything.
5
Oliver
THEN
“This is torture.” Chloe spoke through her teeth, a smile plastered on her face.
“I know. Sorry.” I did the same. Our mothers hovered with their digital cameras like vultures, taking photo after photo of us and of the rest of my friends and their dates fully decked out in formal prom attire.
Well, some of us were fully decked out in formal prom attire.
“Those shorts look so stupid,” Chloe told me, struggling with the word stupid as she continued to smile. “Couldn’t you guys afford suits?”
She was referring to the shorts my friends and I had chosen to wear with our dress shirts and navy blue blazers. My shorts were pale red, but all shades in the preppy rainbow were represented: kelly green, salmon pink, aqua blue, lemon yellow. Loafers, no socks. We wore bow ties, too. Mine was red and blue striped, and I thought I looked pretty badass, actually.
“This is a choice. Not a circumstance,” I assured her when our mothers finally took a break to cry and hug and say things like I can’t believe this is how old we are.
Chloe cocked a brow. “Really.”
“Yeah. We don’t want to be like every other guy who’s ever gone to prom. We’re proclaiming our individualism.”
“In matching short pants. Got it.”
“They’re not matching; they’re coordinated. And why should we be forced to wear tuxes or suits? We’re graduating. We’re sick of rules, and we’re sticking it to the man.”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Oliver. Look around you. You guys are the man.”
I glanced at my friends and had to admit everyone there was wealthy and privileged, headed for ivy-covered schools where we’d study business or law or politics or medicine, following in our fathers’ footsteps, which would most likely lead us right back here to a big brick house near the water, where we’d live with our first wives and kids and dogs. We’d sail in the summer, ski in the winter, join country clubs, play golf on the weekends, and tennis after work. After a while, some of us would probably get divorced and move into a flat in the Park where our angry kids would be forced to spend time with us. Then maybe we’d get remarried and start the cycle all over again. It was kind of depressing, actually, how clearly I could see it all.
But Chloe was right. One thing we probably wouldn’t be was powerless or poor. Was I supposed to feel bad about it?
“Hey, it’s not my fault my family has money,” I told her. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know, maybe use some of your millions to make a difference in the world? Do something meaningful?”
“We give plenty to charity.”
“Like what?”
I had no idea, but I was sure my mother was on the board of at least three philanthropic organizations. I made some shit up. “The Shriners,” I told her. “Those people with the funny hats that ring the bell outside grocery stores at Christmas.”