Page 10 of Restored By the Mountain Man
Instead, the office is empty.
"Mr. Hunter?" I call out, but there's no response.
The door to the office opens and a woman with short blonde hair and kind eyes peeks in. She must be Cynthia, the receptionist I met briefly when I arrived.
"Oh good, you're decent," she says with a smile. "Ezra had to run out but he left instructions for your afternoon."
She hands me a folder filled with documents and a sticky note covered in Ezra's precise handwriting.
"He wants you to review the quality control protocols for the new bourbon blend, check the batch records from last week for any anomalies, and familiarize yourself with our FDA compliance documentation. There's also another tasting scheduled for three o'clock with the production team."
I nod, trying to appear professional despite the fact that I'm wearing my boss's t-shirt and my hair is still damp from showering in his bathroom. "Thank you. Did he say when he'd be back?"
Cynthia shrugs. "Ezra comes and goes as he pleases. Don't take it personally. He's been like a ghost around here for years."
After she leaves, I settle at the small conference table in his office and spread out the documents. The work is fascinating, exactly the kind of detailed analysis I love. Quality control in distilling is both art and science, requiring a palate for nuance and an eye for data patterns.
But as I read through batch records and compliance reports, my mind keeps drifting to the look on Ezra's face when he saw me covered in whiskey. The way his eyes went wide with something that looked like terror. The desperate edge to his voice when he insisted I wash it off.
What had he seen in that moment? What memory had I triggered?
I lose myself in fermentation reports and temperature logs, finding comfort in the familiar rhythm of data analysis. The numbers tell a story of careful craftsmanship and attention to detail. Every batch is tracked meticulously, every variable monitored and recorded.
It's the kind of precision I respect, the kind of dedication that speaks to a deeper commitment to excellence. Despite whatever personal demons Ezra may be fighting, his professional standards are impeccable.
I'm deep in a particularly complex aging analysis when I sense movement in the doorway. I look up to find Ezra standing there, his broad frame filling the entrance. He's changed clothes, I notice, trading his whiskey-splattered shirt for a clean button-down in deep blue that makes his eyes look like storm clouds.
Our gazes lock for a moment and something flickers across his face. Relief, maybe? Or regret? His eyes drop briefly to take in his t-shirt on my body, the way I've styled it to actually look intentional.
He looks away, his jaw tightening. "How are the reports?"
"Interesting," I reply, matching his professional tone. "Your fermentation consistency is impressive. The pH levels have stayed remarkably stable across the last six months of production."
He nods, still not quite meeting my eyes. "Nash has perfected the process over the years with trial and error."
"And your quality metrics are well above industry standards. The reject rate on finished product is less than half a percent."
"We don't compromise on quality." His voice carries pride but there's still tension in his shoulders.
I want to ask him if he's okay. I want to acknowledge what happened earlier, to let him know I understand that sometimesour minds take us to dark places, and we need someone to help pull us back. But something in his posture warns me off.
Instead, I hold up one of the reports. "I did notice some inconsistencies in the aging room temperature logs from last Tuesday. Nothing concerning, but worth investigating."
This draws his attention, and for the first time since he returned, he looks directly at me. "What kind of inconsistencies?"
"Temperature spikes, about three degrees above optimal, lasting roughly an hour each time. Could be a sensor malfunction or maybe an issue with the climate control system."
He moves closer to examine the report I'm holding and suddenly he's right there, leaning over my shoulder to read the data. His proximity hits me like a gut punch. I can smell his cologne mixed with the clean scent of his soap, can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Here," I say, pointing to the anomalous readings, trying to keep my voice steady. "And here. You can see the pattern."
His finger brushes mine as he traces the data points and I feel that simple contact like an electric shock. We both freeze, the air between us suddenly charged with something I shouldn't be feeling for my boss on my first day of work.
"I'll have maintenance check the system," he says, his voice rougher than before. He straightens abruptly, putting distance between us.
"Good. Temperature variations during aging can significantly impact the final flavor profile."
We lapse into silence. I still want to ask him about earlier. I want to understand what triggered his panic. But more than that, I want to know why wearing his t-shirt feels more intimate than any evening gown I've ever worn.
