“The jury’s still out,” she said, kissing him so quickly he almost missed it.
Connor wrapped his arms loosely around her and looked straight into her eyes. They crinkled with mirth as she tried to remain composed. God, she was lovely. How wrong his father was to hate her family so irrationally.
At least he hoped it was irrational. Even if it wasn’t, the sins of Paul Dyer should not have to be paid for by his daughter.
“How was the distillery established?” Connor said. “I just realized I don’t know anything about its history.”
Emerson settled herself against his shoulder. “The short version is that my great-grandfather used to brew what is essentially moonshine, and he and Dad spent their weekends making it. He had this old column still that he’d make this almost deadly high-proof white liquor in. When he passed away, my then-eighteen-year-old Dad asked if he could have it. He played around with it in my grandfather’s garage, and eventually bought a pot still made of copper, so he could start to infuse flavors into a neutral ethanol base. He really studied the science of it, but it was the artistry of infusing flavors that he loved the most.”
Connor struggled to imagine the man his father had resented so much being a curious young man who cared about his grandfather. And he realized, as he looked at Emerson, that Paul Dyer had passed his love and knowledge on to Emerson without demanding she learn it. For a moment, he wondered how different his relationship with his father could have been if his father had taken the same approach.
“So, how did he turn his hobby into a business?”
“That’s the cool part,” Emerson said, and he wondered if she realized just how much her face lit up when she talked about her family. “My great-grandfather was a smart man. He set up a trust so that my father could access it when he was twenty-five as long as he’d gone to college. So, Dad graduated, returned to Denver, and waited for the fund so he could set up his distillery. It wasn’t a huge fund because my great-grandfather wasn’t wealthy by any means, but it was enough to make a start…to put deposits on things, make down payments.”
“Did he take a partner or a loan or anything?”
Emerson grinned. “Both. Of a fashion.”
“Are they still part of the business? What happened to them?” he asked, aware that his questions were becoming more personal. There had never been a rumor of a silent partner, so she must be talking about his father.
“He married her. My mom’s father was a neutral alcohol manufacturer, a supplier my father was thinking of using. Instead, he ended up marrying my mother, and her father gave them the rest of the money they needed as a wedding present. I was born shortly after.”
He married her.
Not the explanation he was expecting. “So, there was never anybody else involved?”
“Why are you so interested in whether there were other people?” Emerson’s expression turned puzzled. “It’s been a family business since the beginning. From the stills in the garage, to me and Jake and Liv there today.”
“Sorry,” he said, trying to think of a plausible reason she’d believe why he was pushing. “Sometimes I slip back into business mode. It’s a hard habit to shake. These are just questions I’d ask people who were going to distribute through us.”
Emerson’s expression eased. “I totally understand that. I have some pictures from the start of the distillery, if you are interested.”
“I’d love to see them,” Connor said.
Emerson left the room to get them.
Fuck. He needed answers. For him to be able to speak with his father about Emerson, about their relationship, he needed to know to what extent his father had been involved from the Dyers’ perspective. But from what Emerson had told him, his father had no involvement at all. It made no sense.
“Here,” Emerson said, coming back to the room. She handed him a set of photographs. “Don’t worry, these are duplicates. There’s Mom and Dad on the day the distillery opened.”
“You look a lot like her,” Connor said. “It’s the eyes, I think. And the hair.”
Emerson ran her finger along the edge of the photograph wistfully. “I looked like her but acted like my dad…they always said I was the perfect blend of both of them. Jake is more like Dad, Liv is all Mom, and I’m in the middle.”
Connor turned to the next photograph. Men were lifting barrels into place in the warehouse. “That’s Stan,” she said. “He grew up with Dad and was one of the first hires. He still works with us today. Over thirty years of service and barely misses a day.”
They skipped through a handful more, Emerson explaining the story behind each one. Some with humor, some etched with nostalgia or a hint of sadness. Connor turned to the final photograph.
“Group shot,” she said, holding the last photograph. About fifteen people stood outside the front of the building. “Dad couldn’t remember why everyone was assembled outside; he thought it was a celebration of being ready to open or something.”
And there, standing at the edge of the photograph, arms crossed in a style Connor recognized, was his father.
Chapter Nine
Emerson tried to move but couldn’t. She was delightfully held in place, her back pressed up against Connor’s chest. His arm was wrapped around her, his calf over hers.
The warmth of his breath tickled the back of her neck.
If there was a better way to wake up, she couldn’t think of it.
Their evening had ended quietly. Connor had suggested a walk, and even though it had gotten dark, it had been nice to be out in the fresh air. When they’d arrived back home, it was late, and so they’d climbed into her bed and fallen asleep together.
But now, with him pressed against her, she hoped she could convince him to make love before she got up to make waffles for breakfast. Not only did
