Page 4 of Flights and Sights

“Isn’t all mead sweet? It’s made from honey, right?”

Pax nodded and put the glasses under two different taps, pouring a little in each before turning back and placing the glasses in front of me. “Mead is made from honey, but that doesn’t mean it’s always a light, sweet, fruity drink. We tend to make a variety of melomels, which are flavored with fruit juices, hydromels, which have more added water than usual, and the occasional traditional mead, which is just honey, water, and yeast. Sometimes, we flavor them with coffee or spices instead of fruit juice. Here, try these.”

I took a sip from the first glass. The mead was rich and full-bodied, dry on my tongue, with a hint of smoke or maybe… “Is that caramel I taste?”

He grinned. “Good guess, but no. This one is made from buckwheat honey, which has a darker, richer taste. We aged it in smoked American Oak barrels, which is where you’re getting the caramel notes.”

“It’s good, but it’s not my thing. I can’t see myself drinking a whole glass of this. Too… strong, I guess. I don’t know.”

“That’s fair. This one is called ‘It’s Not You, It’s Mead.’ It’s our prizewinner, but like you said, it’s not for everyone. Try the other one.”

This one was fizzy, to my surprise. It was sweet and lighter, almost like carbonated grape juice. “I like it.”

“‘The Need for Mead’ is our most popular mead. It’s a session mead, lower alcohol content—a hydromel—and flavored with different things. What do you taste?”

I shrugged. “Just grape juice.”

“Good start. It also has cotton candy flavors in there.”

I took another sip and let the mead linger on my tongue. “Oh, yeah. It does,” I said, a little surprised. I gave Pax a genuine smile. “This is really cool. And you’ve been doing this…”

He nodded. “All my life, really. Like I mentioned, my grandparents started this place in the sixties, almost twenty years before mead started to go mainstream. They came from Europe where it was a lot more common, comparatively speaking. When they settled here, they started creating meads in their garage. They went commercial in sixty-five. My uncle took over in the nineties, and started branching out from traditional meads. And when I took over for him about ten years ago, that’s when things started to get really wild.”

His grin was infectious and my chest heated under the warmth of his gaze. “That’s an amazing story.”

Pax nodded toward my notebook. “Hopefully your magazine will appreciate it.”

The magazine. Shit. “I should probably be taking notes, huh?”

A soft chuckle came from him as he leaned in, placing his hands against the bar top. “Hey, I don’t know your process.” The smooth, velvety way he spoke did something to me, made my gut twist and roll, made me want to reach out for him.

“I could show you my process sometime,” I said quietly, raising my eyebrows. “Now that I’ve heard all about yours, I mean.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard the first thing about the process around here. All you’ve heard is the backstory.”

I hummed and nodded, my cheeks warming. Why was a stupid running joke with the word “process” in it so sexy? “Well, you show me yours and maybe I'll show you mine.”

He hummed a little. “Why don’t I show you around the back room then? Give you a little tour. Then you can sit back down and enjoy a flight, knowing exactly where it comes from.”

Was that intended to be as suggestive as it sounded? I nodded and stood. “I’d love to take a look at the back room.” As I stood, I had to shift a little to keep my jeans from having too noticeable a bulge in front. I followed Pax through the swinging door that led to, presumably, the room where he mixed and fermented and bottled his meads. He ushered me in and followed behind as I slowly walked around, taking it all in.

“This is great.”

“Thanks. Those are the fermentation barrels. Over there is where we do our mixing and experimenting in small batches, before trying to scale up. And that’s the honey storage.”

“So cool.” I was quiet for a moment before turning back to Pax, who was just a few inches behind me. “Oh,” I said softly.

“I hope this is okay,” he murmured, hands in his jeans pockets.

My stomach flipped in anticipation and I inched closer. “Yeah, of course.”

Pax moved one hand to my jaw and leaned in close, until we were nearly touching. He smelled like honey and caramel and wood smoke. I held my breath in anticipation of his next move.

A door slammed nearby, startling us both, and we backed away from one another.

“Hey, boss, you back here?”

Pax took a shaky breath and stepped farther from me. “Yep,” he called over his shoulder.