Chapter 3 #2
"Me?" I stand and plant my hands on the table, leaning over her. "Woman, you’re the one taking it to social media. Do you realize how many fucking orders I’ve had for a damned fairy tale blend? And let’s not forget who sent the Neon Brigade to my roastery for a tasting. This is all you!"
She jumps to her feet, matching my stance. "You put my phone number in bathroom stalls, telling guys to send me pics of their poop, and you hacked my Bluetooth speaker!"
We're head-to-head now, both of us breathing hard. She smells good enough that I nearly lose my train of thought for a second. Gerald and MaryJo have quietly edged toward the door.
"This is insane," Merri says, her voice dropping. "A coffee beer? That’s so lame."
"Those are my favorite." Gerald injects, looking entirely too pleased. "When they’re done well, they're quite sophisticated."
"Nobody asked you, Gerald," Merri and I snarl in unison.
He raises his hands in surrender and disappears into the hallway.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to calm down. A fifty-thousand-dollar prize, plus an extra fifteen thousand for marketing. A four-page magazine spread with national exposure and an opportunity to expand Recon Roasters.
But working with Merri? I don’t think Gandhi could pull this off.
Merri's eyes narrow. "I can see your brain spinning like a hamster wheel. What are you planning?"
I study her expression. The stubborn set of her jaw, the way she's chewing on her bottom lip—a nervous habit I remember from when we were kids.
"I'm thinking this is the worst idea in the history of terrible ideas," I reply honestly.
"Agreed." She folds her arms across her chest in a huff.
"I'm also thinking that turning it down would be incredibly stupid."
She closes her eyes and blows out a long breath, deflating before my eyes. "I know."
We stand there for a long moment, the weight of the decision pressing on us both.
"We'd have to set ground rules," she says finally. "Strict boundaries and no pranks during the collaboration."
"No pranks?" I feel a pang at the thought. It’s like asking me to stop breathing.
"I'm serious, Wyatt. If—and I do mean if—I agree to this, we have to be professional. No sabotage and no more of your juvenile bullshit."
I consider this, fighting the obvious retort that she’s just as bad as me. Antagonizing her right now would only blow this up before it got started. "Okay. But what about after the competition?"
The corner of her mouth lifts, and my gaze drops there before I can stop it. "After the competition, all bets are off. You can expect nonstop humiliation from then on."
"Deal." I extend my hand.
She stares at it like it might bite her, then slowly reaches out. Her hand is smaller than mine, her grip firm. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me that I ignore.
"Forty-eight hours." She yanks her hand away and rubs her arms in a soothing motion. "That's how long we have to decide."
"I already know my answer," I tell her. "The question is, can you work with me without losing your shit?"
"I don’t know." Her eyes flash. "Can you work with me without being an insufferable asshole?"
I can’t hold back the chuckle. That’s fair. "I make no promises."
"Then neither do I," she huffs, her jaw tight.
We eye each other for another moment, unease in her gaze. Then, almost simultaneously, we both nod.
"Fine," Merri snaps. "I'll do it. But I'm making one thing clear right now, this is my brewery on the line. If we're creating a coffee beer, it needs to be a good beer first. That means I'm in charge of the brewing."
"And I'm in charge of picking the coffee," I counter. "I'm not letting you ruin my reputation with a weak blend."
"I wouldn't dream of it," she says sweetly. "Just like I'm sure you wouldn't dream of overwhelming the beer with coffee that tastes like battery acid."
"My coffee does not taste like battery acid."
"Prove it."
Despite our promises of a truce, we're squared off again, that same electric tension humming in the space between us. This close, I can see the gold flecks in her green eyes and those cute freckles on her nose.
"You're on, Gallagher. We'll create the best damn coffee beer Pelican Point has ever seen and win this fucking competition."
"You mean, the best coffee beer Florida has ever seen," she points out. "We’re not low-balling here."
"Even better. We'll raise the bar and reset the standard."
Her laugh is unexpected and genuine, and it rewires something in my brain. "That's the most optimistic thing I've ever heard you say."
"I'm sure I'll be back to my cantankerous self by tomorrow, so don’t get used to it."
"I'll savor the moment while it lasts." Merri heads for the door, those lean legs carrying her away with more grace than should be legal.
She pauses at the threshold to look back at me.
The antagonism on her face softens, just for a second, replaced by what might be resolve.
Or plain old resignation to our shared fate.
"Be at my brewery tomorrow, ten AM sharp. We'll start planning this out."
"I'll be there."
"Good." She pauses, then adds, "Bring your best coffee."
"Same goes for your beer. I'm not working with anything subpar."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Then she's gone, leaving me alone in the conference room with my thoughts and the feeling like I just made a deal with the devil. Or maybe with the devil's particularly attractive and infuriating younger sister.
I sink into the chair, staring at the bloated ceiling tile and wondering what the hell I just agreed to. Working with Merri Gallagher. Spending time in close quarters with the one person who drives me absolutely insane—and not always in a bad way, which is its own problem.
My phone buzzes. A text from Danny.
You and my sister are teaming up?? Should I start planning your funeral now or wait until after the competition?
I type back:
After. I might actually survive this. How the hell did you hear about this so fast?
His response is immediate:
I have my sources. This’ll be fun to watch. I'm taking bets at the bar. Current odds are 3:1 that you kill each other before the competition even starts.
Gee, thanks. That's encouraging.
Just being realistic, man. You two have been at war since grade school. It’ll either end in death or something else.
Something else?
Use your imagination, dude.
I shove my phone back in my pocket, refusing to think about what Danny might mean. He always had a weird theory that Merri and I fight because of "unresolved attraction" or some other psychological bullshit he picked up from his girlfriend who's getting her master's in therapy.
I head for the exit, already mentally bracing myself for tomorrow. Merri wants to prove her beer is the best in Florida? Fine. I'll make damn sure my coffee is so good she can't argue with the results.