Chapter 3
Wyatt
Several days after the town hall meeting, I sit in a conference room at Pelican Point's municipal building wondering what fresh hell awaits me.
The mayor has called an emergency meeting for all beverage category contestants, which in this town means me, Merri, the kombucha lady who always smells like fermented feet, and Gerald from that pretentious smoothie shop on the beach.
The room is depressing with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, beige walls that haven't had a fresh coat of paint since the Clinton administration, and a conference table that's seen better decades.
Honestly, the briefing rooms in Afghanistan were better.
Plus, there's a water-stained ceiling tile bulging ominously above my head, and I'm half-convinced it's going to fall on me before this meeting is over. Wouldn’t Merri love that?
The door opens and in strolls the brat, looking annoyingly sexy in her standard work outfit of khaki shorts, brewery t-shirt, and work boots. Merri’s long hair is pulled back in a ponytail and her sunglasses are perched on top of her head. She spots me immediately and her lip curls in a sneer.
"Dalton."
"Gallagher."
My voice comes out flat, emotionless. We've moved to one-word responses since the Fairy Tale Kisses incident, which, for the record, still has people asking me about other possible seasonal blends.
Yesterday, a woman from Orlando called to order six bags for her daughter's birthday party.
I had to explain for the millionth time that the blend doesn't exist and never fucking will.
Merri's been insufferably smug about the whole thing. Every time I see her, she's got this little smirk on her face as if she's won the lottery. It makes me want to dump an entire pitcher of beer over her head.
She takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, as far from me as physically possible. Good. The farther away she is, the less I can smell that citrusy perfume that has no business being so damned distracting.
Gerald, the smoothie guy, arrives next, dressed in his standard board shorts and a t-shirt that has more holes than a block of Swiss cheese.
The kombucha woman, whose name I can never remember, strides in wearing Birkenstocks and a tie-dye shirt.
She smells like vinegar today, which is actually an improvement.
Mayor Snyder enters last, followed by the same woman who attended last week’s meeting.
She’s dressed in a power suit and cradles a leather portfolio against her chest as if it contains nuclear codes.
The mayor looks nervous, which immediately sets me on edge.
In my experience, nervous politicians mean bad news.
"Thank you for coming in," the mayor begins, his smile tight. "You all remember Ms. Mitchell from last week’s meeting?"
We all nod politely. Ms. Mitchell doesn't smile. I’d swear the woman eats nails for breakfast and washes them down with the tears of struggling writers. I wonder if she spent time in the military as I’ve seen the same expression on a number of drill instructors.
"I’ll cut to the chase," Ms. Mitchell says, her voice as sharp as her cheekbones. "We've decided to restructure the competition to implement collaborations within certain categories that will better reflect the innovative spirit of this coastal community."
I shift in my seat, not liking where this is going. Across the table, Merri’s scowl says she feels the same.
"That’s why we’ve called you in today. As beverage has four entrants, we’ve created the Innovative Beverage Collaboration category."
The room is so quiet, you could hear a whisper in the next county.
"I'm sorry," Gerald says. "Did you say collaborations?"
"Yes." Ms. Mitchell's expression doesn't change.
"In particular, our research team was intrigued by the dynamic between The Sassy Siren Brewery and Recon Roasters at last week’s meeting.
" She glances between me and Merri. "Social media analytics for Pelican Point show significant engagement around your two businesses, in particular, your public feud. "
"But that’s just Merri and Wyatt," Gerald replies, adjusting the loose collar of his threadbare t-shirt. "What about me and MaryJo?"
"We believe you and MaryJo would be a great counterpart. Your two teams would compete against each other in this new category."
I jerk upright in my chair. Has this woman lost every marble in her head? Working with Merri Gallagher would be like being handcuffed to a live grenade.
"Wait. Are you saying you expect me and Wyatt to work together?" Merri's voice climbs about three octaves.
"That’s exactly what I’m saying," Ms. Mitchell replies. "We want you and Wyatt to create something entirely new, combining the best of your businesses. In particular, a coffee beer."
I choke on my own spit. "A what?"
"We’ll let you determine exactly what style you want, but it has to be a collaboration." She says this like she hasn't just suggested we merge water and oil. "The same goes for Gerald and MaryJo. We will expect a tropical kombucha smoothie collaboration."
"This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard," I say flatly, panic setting in.
"Agreed," Merri says. Her face is pale except for two spots of color high on her cheeks. I know that expression, I’ve seen it a thousand times. She’s furious.
For once, we're on the same side, and it's unsettling.
"I think it’s a great idea," Gerald, the ass-kisser, pipes up as he nudges a tense MaryJo. “I’m sure we could come up with an award-winning combination, right?” MaryJo gives him an annoyed side glance, looking like she’d rather be any place but here.
She can join the fucking club.
Mayor Snyder shifts uncomfortably, pulling at his collar as if it’s suddenly too tight.
"I’m afraid the category setup has already been decided.
It’s The Sassy Siren Brewery and Recon Roasters against Shoreline Smoothies and Ferment and Flow.
Jennifer's team believes the collaborations would make a compelling story. "
"A story," I repeat slowly, letting each word land with the weight it deserves. "You want to turn our businesses into fucking clickbait."
"Into content," Ms. Mitchell corrects, as if the distinction matters.
"Specifically, human-interest content. The enemies-to-partners narrative is very popular, and rivals forced to work together makes it even better.
It's captivating, and our editor-in-chief was quite taken with the idea. In fact, she insisted on it."
I stand up, my chair screeching against the worn tile floor. "Absolutely not."
Merri shoots to her feet as well. "Exactly. I'd rather brew with swamp water than collaborate with this nincompoop."
I shoot her my best "zip it" glare, which she ignores. The room erupts with Merri throwing a tantrum about fairness, Gerald muttering about dramatics, and MaryJo slowly sinking under the table. The mayor is trying, yet failing, to calm everyone down, his rambling only adding to the chaos.
"ENOUGH!" Ms. Mitchell's voice cuts through the noise like a blade. We all freeze.
She slides a paper across the table. "Here's the plan and it’s not negotiable.
Each team will have a booth at the Country Living Showcase, which is now only five weeks away.
Attendees will vote on the collaborations that day.
The winning team will have a four-page spread in our magazine instead of one page, a video feature on our website, and each team member will receive the fifty-thousand-dollar prize.
" She pauses for effect. "Plus, we’ll include an additional tourism board marketing package worth fifteen thousand dollars. Each."
"Hold up." All eyes turn to me. "Is this on top of the fifty-thousand-dollar prize?"
Ms. Mitchell’s lips twitch. "If your team wins the collaboration category, then yes, that’s correct. That’s sixty-five thousand dollars for you and the same for Ms. Gallagher."
I slowly sink into my chair, already crunching the numbers. That kind of marketing exposure and cash could mean new wholesale accounts, more online sales, maybe even a second location someday.
But working with Merri Gallagher? My stomach twists.
"What if we refuse?" Merri asks as she plops her butt down. Her voice has lost some of its fire, but her chin still has that stubborn tilt that suggests she’s not done fighting.
Ms. Mitchell's smile is predatory. "Then you're disqualified from the competition entirely. This collaboration is all-or-nothing for the four of you. Either you work together on what we’ve asked, or none of you compete."
"But this is impossible," Merri protests.
"Impossible is just a state of mind, Ms. Gallagher," Ms. Mitchell answers. "This is about Pelican Point getting national exposure. Your businesses will get unprecedented marketing reach, even if you don’t win, and we get a story that resonates with our readers. Everyone wins."
"Except us," I mutter.
"Think of it as an opportunity," the mayor says weakly. "To, uh, bridge your differences and build the community. Wyatt, this puts Pelican Point on the map in a big way."
I glower at him and feel a smidge of satisfaction as he wilts in his chair.
Ms. Mitchell stands, smoothing her suit. "You have forty-eight hours to decide. But let me be clear, our editor was very specific. It's the collaborations or nothing at all."
After dropping that final bomb, she leaves without another word, her heels clicking against the linoleum with military precision. The mayor scurries after her, mumbling about hospitality and showing her the lighthouse.
The moment they're gone, Merri turns to me, her eyes blazing. "This is your fault," she snaps.
I slow blink. "How is this possibly my fault?"
She throws a finger in my direction. "Your stupid pranks got us on social media! If you'd just left me alone, we wouldn't be in this mess!"