She snapped to attention. "What?"
"I was just saying sorry for the interruptions, but it looks like you need it. Are you getting tired?"
"My mind's getting a little fried from all the legalese you're tossing at me. But it's okay."
"Why don't we continue at your place?"
Her brows rose. "My apartment?"
"Your distillery."
"Oh!" She loved that idea. She was ridiculously proud of the distillery and the idea of showing it off to him pleased her more than it probably should. "Let's go."
The distillery was located in a small building in East Austin that she'd bought with money she'd borrowed from Matthew. But Free-Tail was doing so well, that she'd been able to pay him back every dime.
"It's not much to look at," she told him as they entered. "The front room is for retail, though I don't do a lot of walk-in business." She led him into the back, introducing him to her small staff as they went, then showing him her equipment and her aging vats.
"It takes a while to age whiskey traditionally," she told him. "But I've been distilling since I was about eighteen, and I've learned a few tricks. And I started by selling some distilled spirits that don't need to be aged, then graduated up to my whiskeys."
"But in five years?"
"I experimented." Her voice was casual, but she was proud of what she'd accomplished. "I talked with some engineers and worked on a system that allows for quick aging." She nodded toward the big silver box on one side of the cavernous room. "It's all about pressure. And I use special vats with oak cut up inside in that monster over there. Then after that, we move the product to finishing barrels."
"That's amazing."
She shrugged. "That's the thing with craft distilleries these days--using local ingredients and shortening the aging time. I'm not the only one, but I did come up with my system."
"Which also explains why Penoldi-Gryce wants to buy you out," he added, referring to the company with which they were negotiating. "They want your tech."
She nodded as she looked around the room. "It'll be weird not coming here every day. But at least I know that the whiskey I've crafted will continue."
He stepped behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. "You don't actually know that," he said gently.
She frowned, twisting around to see him.
"Once they buy, they have control. They'll keep your brand, but ultimately, they can make what they want. And they may even ditch your label after a while.
"Oh." She bit her lip. "Well, I guess that makes sense."
She shrugged out from his hand and went to sit on a small bench by her primary processing machine. "And if they don't ditch it, they get to use my label on their new stuff."
It wasn't a question, but when he sat next to her, he offered an answer anyway. "They will."
She sat, digesting that. She'd known it, of course. But somehow the truth was sinking in deeper.
For a moment, they sat quietly. Then Easton spoke, his voice so low she almost had to strain to hear him. "My parents had a place. Not a distillery, of course, but a hamburger stand. I watched them lose it. Just ripped out from under them. And when they did, I swear they lost a piece of themselves. It's part of why I became a lawyer."
She licked her lips. "Why are you telling me this?"
"No reason. Just the way you talk about this place reminds me of the way they talked."
"Thanks, but it's different. I'm making a choice. They got it taken away." She turned to meet his sympathetic eyes. "You get the difference, right? Choice is what matters."
"Can't argue there. You sound like you know what you're talking about."
"I have some experience with having the world ripped out from under me," she admitted, then regretted the words. He'd ask what she meant, of course.
But he didn't. Instead, he studied her face. Then he simply nodded, and for a moment she felt a wave of disappointment followed by the shocking realization that she'd not only expected the question, but she'd wanted it. Wanted to share her past--her screwed up history--with him.