“Oh,somethinghappened.” She looks at Ash and he looks at her.
“Tell them,” he says.
“Warren Holt,” Luna says, “is putting two million dollars into Hollow Gold.”
Reed straightens. “What?”
“Two million.” She says it again, slower. “Against eight percent of cider revenue until he’s tripled his money, then five percentfor three years, then done. And he’s walking us into Pacific Crest, his wholesale people, to put our bottles in front of every buyer in the country.”
The numbers land in my brain one at a time. “That’s not—” My voice needs a second. “Men like that don’t just hand orchards two million dollars.”
“He didn’t hand us anything. He ‘discovered us,’” Ash says, making air quotes with his fingers. “Big difference. We owe the whole thing to our Chief Inspector.”
“It was a team effort.” She waves it off, but her cheeks have gone pink. “There’s one catch, though. A thousand bottles must be delivered to Pacific Crest by December first.”
A thousand bottles by December first. The math starts running—bins, press hours, bottles, labor. We can make it.
“Is there some sort of formal agreement?” I ask. “Did he sign something, or do we only have a rich man’s handshake?”
“Funny you should ask.” Ash pats his jacket pocket.
Then the other pocket.
Then both at once, faster, and the ease goes out of his face all in one go. “Wait.” He checks his jeans. “Hold on. The agreement. Did I—”
Luna’s grin dies. “Ash.”
But his grin returns as he pulls a white envelope from his inside breast pocket. “Got you.”
“You son of a—” Reed wheels around with both hands out for his throat, and Luna’s already snatched the envelope and smacked it across Ash’s chest.
“All this hard labor,” she says. “I almost died!”
“Sorry,” Ash says, sounding zero percent sorry. “You should’ve seen your faces.”
Luna presses the envelope into my hands. “Here. Before he does an encore.”
I open it and inside is... a napkin? But wait, there’s handwriting on it.
I squint.
A date at the top. Three full names. Two million, eight percent, a six-million ceiling, a five-percent tail, the introduction, one thousand bottles, December first. Three signatures.
“Holy shit,” I hear myself say.
“That’s what I said,” Ash says.
“No, this is real. Date, parties, terms, consideration, signatures.” I look up. “This would hold up in front of a judge.”
Reed looks from the napkin to Luna to Ash, and then he makes a sound I haven’t heard out of him in a long time. A whoop, full volume, straight up into the porch roof. He grabs Luna and lifts her all over again. “A thousand bottles! Okay, let’s do it! But wait, we have to celebrate. The bottle from Gran’s year is still in the cellar—”
“Maybe tomorrow?” Luna laughs as he sets her down. “I don’t think I’ll be much fun tonight. I got—” her eyes flick to Ash, half a heartbeat, “—very little sleep.”
Ash doesn’t say a word. He just smiles, slow and private.
Oh, that lucky bastard.
“Shower, sleep, and tomorrow I’m good for anything,” she adds. “Deal?”
