Hard Pressed Page 2

  She cleared her throat and grumbled, as irritated with herself for going there as with Dylan for showing up to a meeting in such an unprofessional way.

  “Mira?”

  Shit. She wasn’t on mute. “I’m sorry. My connection must have cut out. What was the question?”

  Frederick smiled. “No question. I thought you had a comment on the budget report.”

  She forced a smile. “Oh, no. No comment.”

  She clicked herself to mute and tried to refocus her attention. But the second she finished straightening her shoulders and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, her gaze wandered back to that bottom square. No Dylan, just a shot of stainless-steel tanks. Where the hell had she gone?

  She’d no sooner posed the question to herself when Dylan reappeared. She’d finger combed her hair and changed her shirt and, despite what Mira had argued to herself a moment before, looked sexy as hell. Mira shook her head. She needed to get a grip. And maybe get out more.

  “Our main topic today is to begin planning for Cider Week. The dates are set, and I know many of you are already planning your in-house events. The gala date is set as well, and we’ve secured the Statler Hotel in Ithaca. Now we just need to plan it.”

  Everyone chuckled. Mira waited a beat before unmuting herself. “I’d be happy to chair again.”

  A couple of thank yous gave way to Don Farrell’s booming baritone. “What if we centered some of our smaller producers this year? Let them take the lead?”

  Since no one could see her hands, Mira flipped her middle finger. She hadn’t been able to decipher if he was racist, sexist, or both, but he made no pretenses about disliking her. Or maybe he merely disliked what she stood for—a successful and well-established brand in the cider industry.

  Frederick, ever the diplomat, nodded. “A great idea, but we must be mindful of the limited staffs and resources many of our smaller-scale members are working with.”

  “What about co-chairs?” Don said, making her wonder if he’d been plotting this all along. Which, of course, made her wonder about his motives. Not a coup, exactly. Just a pain in her ass.

  Several heads nodded.

  “Appointing co-chairs might be a win for everyone involved.” Frederick continued to nod, clearly warming to the idea. “Mira, what say you?”

  Mira smiled, even as memories of group projects from grad school flashed in her mind. The kind where she did all the work but had the added stress of trying to get others to pull their weight, and then pretending they had during the group presentation. “I’m happy to step back if someone else wants to take the lead.”

  She wasn’t, but she’d be damned if she came off as the control freak—or worse, diva—who refused to release her grip on being in charge.

  Frederick lifted a hand. “Now, now. We wouldn’t want you to step back entirely. You’ve helped put Cider Week on the map.”

  Damn right she had. “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

  Don didn’t miss a beat. “What about our colleague from Forbidden Fruit? She’s mentioned a desire to put herself and her brand more in the public eye.”

  Mira narrowed her gaze, as though that might give her a better view into Don’s mind and whatever ulterior motives he had going on. Did he know something about Dylan she didn’t? Was he trying to undermine her or throw Dylan under the bus? Maybe both?

  “Dylan?” Frederick’s eyes shifted slightly, ostensibly looking at Dylan’s square on his screen.

  Dylan offered an easy smile and Mira wondered how many women she’d talked into bed with little more. “I’m honored and would love to play a bigger role. But I’m sure everything would go more smoothly if I had a charismatic and experienced co-chair at my side.”

  Seriously? She had about as much use for casual flirtation as she did consummate unprofessionalism. But since she imagined a dozen gazes shifting from Dylan to her, she reined in the death stare and smiled. “Then I guess it’s settled.”

  * * *

  Dylan strode into the tasting room, where’d she’d left Rowan stocking shelves for the weekend rush. She found Rowan, not exactly where she’d left her, but not much farther along either. “Are you still doing that?”

  Rowan shrugged, unfazed by anything the question might imply. “Audrey came out to ask me about the bottle order.”

  “Ah. So, you spent the last hour making out.”

  “No, we only spent a few minutes making out. Then she made me do math.”

  Dylan laughed because she believed it. Audrey and Rowan were still in the hot for each other phase of couplehood, but CPA Audrey was all about keeping things professional at work. “My condolences.”

  Rowan bowed her head. “Thank you. I’m happy to report that we’re going to buy twice as many at a time but pay twenty percent less. We should only have to climb over cases of empties for a month or two.”

  Rowan was kidding, but barely. They’d reconfigured their space to make better use of what little storage they had as production grew and were once again pushing the limits of their building’s square footage. “For twenty percent savings, I’ll store them in my garage.”

  “That’s what I said.” Rowan laughed. “How was your meeting?”

  “Guess who’s co-chairing the organizing for this year’s Finger Lakes Cider Week?”

  Rowan angled her head. “If it’s not you, this is a dumb way to tell a story.”

  “Not true. It could be a half dozen people that you know and would want to hear about.”

  That got her a bland look.

  “But your first guess is right. It is me.” Exactly how it happened remained a bit of a blur, but she wasn’t about to complain.

  “Nice.” Rowan abandoned the half-empty crate in front of her and crossed the room. She clapped Dylan on the shoulder. “You’re very prestigious, very fancy.”

  “Are you going to ask who my co-chair is?”

  Rowan straightened her shoulders. “Hey, Dylan. Who’s your co-chair?”

  “Mira Lavigne.”

  Rowan closed one eye. “Remind me who that is again?”

  “Heiress apparent of Pomme d’Or.” Mira’s parents—a fifth generation wine maker and the only female Black Master Sommelier in the world—had started Pomme and basically kickstarted the New York cider boom.

  “Oh.” Rowan let the word drag. “Am I remembering correctly that you have the hots for her?”

  “I do not have the hots for her.” She’d admired Mira but mostly from a distance. Curvy, flawless medium brown complexion, and with that sort of feminine elegance that seemed intrinsic to growing up with money—not her type but definitely the stuff of fantasies.

  “But you think she’s hot.”

  “She’s gorgeous, but that’s not the point.” It might be fun to make it the point, to imagine mussing up the almost stringently put together Mira, but she had other more pressing matters. At least for the moment.

  “There’s a point?”

  Dylan let out an exasperated huff, more on principle than taking offense at the teasing. “The point is her marketing department is bigger than our whole staff.”

  Rowan made a face. “Is that a good thing?”

  “It means we’re swimming with the big fish.”

  “And that’s a good thing.” Rowan’s pained delivery didn’t come out as a question but made her sentiments clear.

  “We aren’t going to become big fish. That’s not our goal. But swimming with them? Abso-fucking-lutely. The visibility that comes with that is a big deal.”

  Rowan nodded, appropriately cowed. “You’re right, you’re right.”

  She didn’t try to hide her grin. “I love it when you say that.”

  “Shut up.” Rowan returned to the stack of boxes but didn’t resume unpacking them.

  She folded her arms and didn’t budge. “Not until you say
, ‘Good job, Dylan.’”

  “Good job, Dylan.”

  She shook her head. “It hurts my feelings when you roll your eyes as you say that.”

  Rowan shrugged. “Then next time tell me not to roll my eyes.”

  “It’s a good thing I know you love me deep down.”

  Rowan batted her eyes instead of rolling them. “I really do.”

  “Ditto.” And she thanked the universe every day for allowing their paths to cross in the mass of undergrads finding their way on the sprawling campus that was Cornell University.

  Rowan picked up a bottle of the previous year’s extra dry perry. “I have to finish stocking the shelves so my boss doesn’t yell at me, but tell me all about it while I work.”

  This time it was Dylan’s turn to roll her eyes. Not that she was truly irritated. Or that Rowan even remotely considered her the boss. But goading each other was standard business practice and had been since Forbidden Fruit was little more than the pipe dream of a couple of restless college students. “Well, Mira volunteered to chair again. But then Don Farrell suggested including a co-chair from one of the smaller cideries.”

  Rowan frowned. “Wait. Isn’t he the blowhard from, oh, what’s the place?”

  “Serpent Cider.” Not bad cider, but not particularly good either.

  “Yeah. That’s the place.” Rowan made a face, clearly sharing the opinion.

  “He is the blowhard from there. I thought he hated women, but he’s the one who nominated me.” A fact that she’d almost missed during her frantic attempt to dry off and change mid-meeting.

  “Huh.” Rowan’s frown became a scowl.

  “I know. Maybe he’s just socially awkward.” She was all about giving people the benefit of the doubt. And not having enemies.

  Rowan shook her head. “That’s not the same thing and you know it.”

  “Maybe he’s a general jerk and not a misogynist?” He’d been rude to her, but not like he was to Mira on a regular basis at association meetings. Maybe he disliked Mira. Or what she symbolized. “Classist? Or more racist than sexist maybe? Ugh.”

  “All possible. Just watch your back. I’m not saying he has nefarious motives, but he might not have the best of intentions either.”

  Well, fuck. That hadn’t occurred to her. She’d been so busy soaking up the recognition—the support of her peers as much as Don’s nomination—she hadn’t stopped to analyze it.

  Rowan, as if sensing her doubts, set the pair of bottles on the shelf and brought both hands to Dylan’s shoulders. “Hey, I didn’t mean to rain on your parade. It’s an honor no matter how you got there. And it will be great for visibility, especially since we’re going to be able to host an event this year.”

  They’d already discussed that, now that the tasting room was up and running. Having a say in planning the week would give her the leverage to schedule themselves when and how they wanted. And being visible at the gala would be free publicity right in their backyard. “Right.”

  “And if you get to hang out with a woman you have the hots for in the meantime, total bonus.”

  “I don’t have the hots for her.” She could, but she didn’t. One, because it would be unprofessional. Two, because she got a little bit of an ice queen vibe from Mira and that wasn’t her jam. Three, because the whole point of co-chairing was to bring Forbidden Fruit to the next level, not chase tail. It might not have always been the case, but at this point in her life, she was mature enough to know the difference and keep her eye on the prize.

  Chapter Two

  Mira donned the protective coveralls she wore when she visited the production floor, wiggling the shapeless fabric over the swell of her hips. She tucked her curls into a mesh hairnet and checked her reflection in the window overlooking the area. To make sure it was secure, not to see how silly she looked. She already knew how silly she looked.

  Luis held the door, as was his custom, and he bowed with a flourish. “After you, mademoiselle.”

  He was French—and seventy—so she gave him a pass.

  Once in the production area, he took the lead, walking her through the rows of fermentation tanks. “This is the Late Summer Harvest. Good blend this year. Nicely sharp, but with soft edges. Like you.”

  Despite the thirty years he’d spent in the US, he still pronounced “this” as “zis.” Much like his displays of chivalry and tendency to liken cider to women, it didn’t grate on her the way it might coming from someone younger or American. It helped that he was brilliant at crafting cider. On top of that, he respected her, and her role at the company, without hesitation. And had since before her father officially handed over the reins.

  “When will it be ready for bottling?” she asked.

  “Very soon. We will do the second fermentation in the bottles and let it age another few months.”

  She nodded. Her parents had made the decision to exclusively produce champagne-style ciders when they started Pomme d’Or. They’d leveraged the reputation of Vallée d’Or and traditional winemaking craftsmanship and created one of the most recognized cider brands in the country. She’d spent the entirety of her career learning the business and helping it grow. And when she’d finally been put in charge so her parents could stay in California full-time for their retirement, she hadn’t changed a thing.

  As her father so often said, don’t mess with perfection.

  They proceeded to the intake area. With apple season still a few months away, the presses sat quiet. At this time of year, they focused on juice pressed and preserved the previous fall, trucked in from all over New England. “How has the supply been?”

  Luis flipped a hand back and forth. “Mostly good. The variety helps. And the barrels, they make even the so-so shine.”

  “Speaking of, shall we visit the cellar?”

  “Mademoiselle, I thought you would never ask.”

  On their way back through, they passed Eric, a French guy in his twenties Luis had brought over as an apprentice, hosing out one of the tanks. He lifted a hand, offering a good morning as they passed. Mira returned the greeting, even as her mind flashed elsewhere.

  Well, not elsewhere. It flashed right to the image of Dylan on her computer screen—wet, disheveled, and sexy. She’d been cleaning tanks, hadn’t she? Or something similar. A tussle, she’d said.

  It made her wonder about Dylan’s operation. How big it was, how many staff she had. She’d heard of Forbidden Fruit, but mostly because she made a point of knowing all the ciders coming out of the region. Good, if a bit all over the place. Like they valued creativity over consistency. Nothing wrong with that, it just wasn’t her style. Nor was it, at least in her opinion, the best way to stay in business.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  She turned to find Luis regarding her with curiosity. “Yes?”

  “Is everything okay? You seem, ah, distracted.”

  She waved him away, annoyed with herself and with Dylan for invading her thoughts uninvited. “Yes, yes.”

  Luis held the door once again and they headed downstairs. The cavernous space held row after row of oak barrels, just like a wine cellar. Here, they were stacked four high and twenty across. The aroma got her every time and today was no exception. Like autumn and an old library had a baby, with apples providing base notes more than top. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed deeply, and smiled.

  “It’s not like anything else, is it?” Luis asked.

  “It really isn’t.”

  “You should come down here more often. It’s good for the soul. Like oxygen, but better.”

  She’d heard that before. “You sound like my father.”

  “He’s a smart man.”

  They walked one of the rows, and she trailed her fingers along the curve of a few of the barrels. “Indeed he is.”

  It had been somewhat unheard of at the time, but her father ha
d experimented with aging cider in oak before its final fermentation in the bottle. He always joked that it was part inspiration—he was a winemaker at heart—and part having more used barrels than he knew what to do with. After a great deal of trial and error, he settled on a high tannin cider in chardonnay barrels, creating a cider that managed to be both full-bodied and soft, much like the rich, almost buttery wine that had been aged before it. It became Pomme’s signature label and had been their best-selling blend for the past decade.

  Did Dylan barrel age her ciders?

  Even as the question—its very existence in her mind—irritated her, she wanted to know the answer. Wanted to understand who Dylan was and what made her tick. If for no other reason than they’d be working together, and it would make her life easier. And that was reason enough.

  She pulled her attention back to the work at hand. Luis had siphoned off a few samples for inspection. They took turns holding each vial to the light, searching for that soft gold Lake Sunset was known for. She joined Luis in tasting but left the commentary and blending decisions to him. He was the expert after all. And despite years of doing it, and knowing a good bottle from a bad, she lacked the intuition to know exactly how to turn the individual notes into the harmony of the finished product.

  Fortunately, she didn’t need to. She left Luis to his alchemy and shed her coveralls and hairnet, returning to the world where she was an expert. The realm of logistics and communications, pulling together the people and the words and the numbers that kept everything running the way it should.

  Back in her office, Mira settled at her desk and went to work on her inbox. Once she had it wrangled to her satisfaction, she turned to the next task at hand: planning Cider Week. She sighed.

  She’d need to pull Dylan in, obviously. But for the past few years, she’d kicked off planning with a luncheon at Pomme, inviting representatives from all the cideries that planned to participate, not just those on the association board. Surely, Dylan wouldn’t complain about that. It was a great networking opportunity in addition to providing a group brainstorm where she and everyone else could get a handle on the types of events folks were planning. And once they had that, she and Dylan could tackle filling in the gaps and, of course, the gala.