Page 17 of Restored By the Mountain Man
"Morning," I say, trying to ignore the way my pulse quickens when our fingers brush as he takes my bag.
"Morning." His voice is gravelly with sleep and I have to suppress a shiver at the sound. "Ready for this?"
"Absolutely. I've been researching Wild Earth Farms since yesterday. Their sustainability practices are impressive."
He nods, loading my bag into the back of his truck next to his own. "Francisco's family takes pride in their work. They’re third generation farmers who've managed to stay true to their values while adapting to modern demands."
I climb into the passenger seat, noting how the interior smells different than it did a few nights ago. I almost lean in closer. Instead, I buckle my seatbelt and focus on the folder of research I've prepared.
"I've put together a comprehensive analysis of their grain quality standards and how they align with our production needs," I tell him as he settles into the driver's seat. "Plus projections on volume requirements for the next two years."
"Thorough as always." There's something that might be approval in his voice, and it warms me more than it should.
The first hour of the drive passes in comfortable conversation about business. We discuss fermentation processes, grain specifications, and the logistics of scaling up production. It's easy to talk shop with Ezra. His knowledge is encyclopedic, his passion evident in every word.
But as we leave the mountains behind and the landscape opens into rolling hills, the conversation lulls. The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly, but it's charged with something I can't quite name.
I find myself stealing glances at his profile. The strong line of his jaw, the way his hands grip the steering wheel with casual confidence. When he reaches over to adjust the radio, his arm brushes mine and I feel that contact like a spark.
"Tell me about the festival," I say, needing to break the tension. "Laurel mentioned wanting to go."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "It's a harvest celebration. Local tradition going back decades. Food, music, crafts. Families come from all over the region."
There's something carefully neutral in his tone, like he's editing his words. I remember the way he reacted the day before yesterday when I mentioned the festival, how he seemed to go somewhere else entirely.
"You've been before?" I ask gently.
"Once." The single word is clipped, final. A door slamming shut.
I don't push. Whatever memory the festival holds for him, it's clearly painful. Instead, I turn my attention back to the passing scenery, watching as farmland stretches in every direction.
We stop for coffee at a small town diner and I'm grateful for the chance to stretch my legs. Ezra orders for both of us while I use the restroom, and when I return, he's chatting easily with the elderly waitress who clearly knows him.
"Don't see you around much anymore, honey," she's saying, refilling his coffee cup. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm good, Mrs. Patterson. Keeping busy with the distillery."
She pats his shoulder with the familiarity of someone who's known him since childhood. "Well, you know you're always welcome here. And bring this pretty young lady back with you next time."
Heat rises in my cheeks as she winks at me. "Oh, we're just colleagues. It’s a business trip."
"Mmm hmm." Her knowing smile suggests she's not buying it. "Well, you two drive safe now."
Back in the truck, I can't help but tease him. "Popular with the locals, I see."
A ghost of a smile plays at his lips. "Mrs. Patterson knew my parents. She's been feeding me pie since I was knee high."
It's the most personal thing he's shared and I realize I want to know more. What was he like as a child? Did he always have that serious intensity or was there a time when he laughed easily?
"Were you close? With your parents?"
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Yeah. Dad taught me everything about distilling. Mom kept us all in line." His voice softens. "They would have liked you."
The simple statement hits me harder than it should. "I would have liked to meet them."
We fall into silence again but this time it feels different. Less charged, more contemplative. Like we've shared something significant without meaning to.
The landscape changes as we drive deeper into farm country. Rolling hills give way to vast fields of grain, golden in the afternoon sun. Tractors move slowly across distant pastures and the air carries the earthy scent of harvest.
