“Okay,” she says. “Well.” Her eyes travel down my collar, sweep across my shoulders, and snag on my hands before taking their sweet time coming back up. It really doesn’t help that this place has no scent-suppressing diffusers (they see it as a part of the vibes). “The suit is also performing,” she says, her voice dropping half a register. “And if we didn’t have a billionaire to land tonight, I’d...” She catches herself, biting her lip.
“Trust me,” I say, and I let my eyes finish her sentence for her. “Me first.”
Three tables away, Warren Holt is holding court.
He’s bigger than his photos. A heavyweight gone comfortable, with a watch that could refinance the orchard’s equipment and a laugh that screams wealth. Four guests orbit his table and laugh on cue. He’s telling stories, and I’d bet money they’re about his genius business discoveries.
I don’t take pitches, I take walks.
So tonight, Warren, we built you a walk.
Between Luna and me, in a silver bucket the Cormorant Room’s staff kindly provided, sits a bottle the place has never sold (with two empty, polished glasses beside it). Dark amber, gold lettering on the shoulder. Hollow Gold. Ours. The waiter who hauled the ice believes it’s an anniversary gift. And the leather menu folder at my elbow is one page heavier than it’s supposed to be.
Luna’s eyes flick to Holt’s table and back.
“Ready?” she breathes.
I tip my head a quarter inch. “Let’s do this.”
“No. No, I’m not letting this go.” Her voice has climbed a notch, enough to carry a few tables while still sounding natural. We calibrated it this afternoon against the café noise. She was a frighteningly fast study. “You cannot seriously consider handing our cider to Meridian.”
“They’re the biggest distributor on the coast, Luna.” I lean back so the exasperation reads from a distance. “Four thousand stores. They’re offering to put our bottles in four thousand stores, and you want to tell themwe’ll think about it.”
“Because they’d shelve us at ankle height, down with the bargain stuff.” She bangs her first on the tablecloth. “And they calledus, remember? Theyneedcraft cider on their list to look interesting. We’re the ones who get to be choosy, and you want to give that up for the thrill of being everywhere.”
“Being everywhere is the point of making cider,” I say.
“Cascadia would sell twice as many bottles at twice the price.” She leans in. “And we’d be the only cider they carry.”
“The only cider they carry, but we’d never be allowed to sell through anyone else again. That’s not a partnership, that’s a leash.”
“It’s amoat.” Her chin comes up. “It keeps everyone else out.”
A chair scrapes, three tables away.
I keep my eyes on Luna. Her pupils flare:incoming.
“Forgive me.” Deep voice, unhurried. Warren Holt stands at the end of our table, Scotch in hand, dinner jacket open. “I keep a strict policy about staying out of people’s arguments.”
A beat, while he swirls the glass. “But I make exceptions when both sides are wrong.”
Luna gives him two degrees of frost. “I’m sorry, wrong aboutwhat, exactly?”
“May I?” He’s already turning the chair.
There it is.I arrange my face into reluctant courtesy. “Please.”
He settles in, glass first.
“Meridian will put you in four thousand stores,” he says, “and bury you on the bottom shelf of every one of them, next to a house brand with an apple cartoon on it. Cascadia will make you precious, boutique, and permanently small. I’ve run distribution from both ends, and neither offer is a strategy. One’s a burial, the other’s a terrarium.” He takes his sip. “Which brings us to the only interesting question at this table. What in God’s name is the cider you’re talking about?”
Right then, a waiter glides in on my blind side and reaches for the menu folder.
My lungs quit.
But Luna’s palm lands flat on the leather, easy. “Oh, could we get three waters when you have a moment?” She beams up at him. “And tell whoever chose tonight’s music they have excellent taste.”
The waiter glows, bows, evaporates. Luna didn’t hesitate for so much as a syllable. Damn, she’s good.
