“We’re talking aboutthiscider,” I say, reaching for the bucket. “Care for a taste?”
“I never say no to a hidden gem.” He parks the Scotch to one side and plants his forearms on the table, settling in.
I lift the Hollow Gold out of the ice, wipe it down, and pour two fingers into a fresh glass, slow.
Holt lifts the glass to the candle, checking the color. He noses it once, then twice, before taking a drink. The second sip chases the first before he’s even finished swallowing, his eyes closing as he savors it.
The table goes very quiet.
“Where,” he says, eyes still shut, “has this been.”
“Page two,” Luna says sweetly, and slides him the menu.
He flips the folder open, and there we are, printed crisp between the champagnes and the dessert wines, right at home.Hollow Gold. Dry orchard cider.
“They list it,” he says slowly, “and I have never tasted it.”
“To be fair,” Luna says, “it only went on the menu today.”
You can watch the whole story assemble itself behind his eyes in real time: the night he walked into his favorite lounge in the city and stumbled, personally, into a rare find.
Take the walk, Warren.
“Tell me everything,” he says, turning his chair another inch toward us. “Start with why I’ve never heard of you.”
“I’m sorry.” Luna sits back an inch, apologetic smile in place. “Who are you, exactly?”
For one second, the question just sits there. I’d guess nobody has asked it of him in fifteen years.
Playing hard to get, nice one.I keep my eyes on my glass so Warren won’t read the pride in them.
Then he laughs, short, and offers a hand across the table. “Of course. Forgive me, I got ahead of my manners. Warren Holt.” One beat, precisely timed. “Forbes ran a profile a few years back. The bars, the hotels. You may have come across it.”
“Oh.” Luna’s eyes widen on a small delay. “ThatWarren Holt.”
I take the hand. “Ash Miller. My partner, Luna Sae.” Her eyes flick to me atpartner, one warm fraction of a second. “It’s an honor to have you at our table, Mr. Holt.”
“Warren, please. Mr. Holt is what my lawyers call me.” He picks his cider glass back up, settles deeper into the chair, and tips the rim toward the bottle in its ice. “Now. This remarkable cider of yours. I want the story, all of it, from the first tree. Start with how something this good stays a secret.”
The honest answer is that we’re a few bad weeks from losing all of it. The answer jams behind my sternum, and my smile holds with nothing behind it.
Half a second. That’s all the silence she allows.
“Because until this year, we never needed anyone to hear of us.” Luna leans in, conspiratorial. “Every glass of cider in ourtown pours from our barrels. We sell out by Christmas without printing a flyer. Twelve hundred bottles this season, sixteen hundred if the late press behaves.”
Somewhere low in my chest, my Alpha gives a long, appreciative whistle.That’s our omega.
“Hm.” Holt’s thumb circles the rim of his glass. “And the orchard?”
This part is mine, and it costs me nothing, because every word of it is true. Three brothers on land our family has worked for generations. The hollow that goes gold for two weeks every October, when the sun drops low enough to come straight up the rows. That’s the name, that’s the bottle, the whole valley poured out at once. I give it to him straight.
Holt listens with his elbows on the table, and, somewhere in the middle, he stops being a rich man being entertained, and the math starts showing in his face.
“What are your current offers?”
Everything in me goes quiet.
“With respect,” Luna says, unhurried, “those companies trust us to keep the details private, and we aren’t going to sit in a bar and gossip about their terms.” A small smile. “Besides, if we leaked them, what would that say about our character?”
