Chapter 4
Merri
My legs refuse to stop, carrying me back and forth across the production room floor while my brain cycles through every way this could blow up in my face. Why did I agree to this? What was I thinking?
The brewery smells like heaven, all malt and hops and possibility, which normally soothes me regardless of the world outside my walls. Now the only thing I can think about is the fact that Wyatt Dalton is about to walk through my door in thirteen minutes.
I wonder if I’m about to lose my mind, and we haven’t even gotten started yet. I can feel my future therapy bills piling up already. My therapist is going to need a therapist by the time this is over.
"You're making me dizzy," Tommy comments from the tank he’s cleaning. My assistant brewer has the laid-back attitude of someone who's never experienced true stress, which can be really annoying sometimes. Who doesn’t have stress? "You only pace when you're freaking out."
"I'm not freaking out," I snap as I chew on my thumbnail.
"You're also stress-cleaning. You adjusted the tap handles twice this morning."
I stop mid-stride and glare at him. "They were crooked."
"They were fine. Just admit that you're nervous about working with Wyatt." Tommy grins, enjoying this way too much. "Can't say I blame you. The guy looks like he could bench-press a truck."
"That's not—" I cut myself off, because Tommy's not wrong. Wyatt does look like he could bench-press a truck. Plus a motorcycle. And maybe the entire municipal building. The fact that he’s built like he was carved from granite, and good-looking to boot, is deeply irritating.
"I'm just concerned about this collaboration," I say primly. "The brewery's reputation is on the line. If we screw this up, it could be a death sentence for The Sassy Siren."
"Uh-huh." Tommy doesn't sound convinced. "Is that why you grabbed him breakfast?"
I glance at the plate of bacon, egg, and cheese burritos sitting on the counter, still warm from the deli down the street. "I thought we should have food available, in case that’s what makes him so grumpy."
"Yep. It was very thoughtful considering you never eat breakfast."
"I do sometimes, but it’s not my preference."
"If it makes you feel better, that’s definitely Wyatt's favorite burrito." Tommy's grin widens. "I've seen him at the deli. The guy orders two to three at a time, with extra bacon."
My face heats, wishing there was a hole nearby I could jump in. "It's just basic strategy. A well-fed Wyatt is marginally less insufferable than a hungry one."
"Sure it is." Tommy goes back to scrubbing the tank, but I can see his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
I resume my pacing. Tommy's observation isn't entirely inaccurate.
I did specifically buy breakfast burritos because I know Wyatt likes them.
Feed the beast, keep him compliant, and get through this collaboration with minimal casualties.
It's the same principle as bringing treats to a difficult business meeting.
Admiral lifts his graying head from his dog bed in the corner and thumps his tail against the floor. He's got that sixth sense dogs have about visitors, and sure enough, a few seconds later, I hear a knock at the brewery’s entrance.
Tommy rushes to let him in, and before I can compose myself, Wyatt strolls into my production room with a thermal carafe that I can only assume is coffee. The air in here already feels different somehow. Does the man practice voodoo? Should I find a priest to perform an exorcism when this is over?
The dark jeans and faded Recon Roasters t-shirt showcase exactly what Tommy meant about Wyatt’s physical presence. The man is built like a Mack truck. Too bad all that eye candy comes with the personality of an ogre.
"Dalton," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
"Gallagher." His eyes do a quick sweep of the room, and I see the moment he zeroes in on the breakfast burritos. Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or confusion—but it's gone before I can identify it. "You made breakfast?"
"I bought breakfast," I correct. "I figured we'd need the brain fuel. We have some serious work to do today."
He holds up the coffee carafe. "Here’s one of my best blends. I figured you'd be more tolerable with caffeine."
Despite myself, a smile tugs at my lips. He has a point. "Great minds think alike."
Wyatt grunts. "Or we both just know how irritating the other person can be." But there's no real bite to his words, and when he sets the carafe down on the counter, his mouth twists into a sexy lopsided grin that easily takes a decade off his face.
Before I can respond, Admiral shuffles over to Wyatt, his tail wagging like a metronome. My dog, who's usually selective about his affections, leans his entire eighty-pound body against Wyatt's leg with a contented sigh.
"Hey, buddy." Wyatt crouches down, rubbing behind my dog's ears with practiced ease. "Who's a good old man?"
Admiral groans with pleasure, his back leg thumping on the floor.
"Traitor," I mutter.
Wyatt smirks at me, still massaging Admiral's ears. "He's a great dog. Always has been." The warmth and genuine care in his voice catches me off guard. Wyatt's always had a soft spot for Admiral, since Danny first brought him home. It's one of the few things we've never fought about.
"Come on," I say, nodding to the right. "Let me give you the official tour."
Wyatt straightens, giving Admiral one last pat, and follows me. The production room is my pride and joy, with its stainless-steel tanks that gleam in the overhead lights. The temperature controls line one wall, each gauge precisely calibrated.
Everything is clean, organized, and carefully maintained.
It's not fancy, but it's mine. I worked my ass off to save up for this system and lucked out when a brewery across the state sold off their used equipment at half price. It’s in these beauties that I spend countless hours coaxing the best flavor combinations from my ingredients.
"Merri, this is impressive." He trails off, moving to the control panel.
I try not to preen, but I fail. "It does the job."
"It does more than that." He runs his hand along the edge of the mash tun, and my eyes follow the way he caresses the equipment.
"This is a serious setup," he continues. "You've got temperature control, glycol cooling, and automated cleaning systems." He glances at me, and there's genuine respect in his expression. "You really know what you're doing."
My chest tightens with unexpected warmth. Wyatt's approval shouldn't matter—it truly shouldn't—but hearing him acknowledge my work feels damn near intoxicating.
"I’ve been lucky. I learned from the best," I reply, trying to keep my voice casual. "A big craft brewery in Colorado hired me right out of college, and I spent five years there before returning to open The Sassy Siren."
"It shows." He turns back to the equipment, and I can’t look away.
The way he moves with that precise, economical grace.
The way his shirt pulls tight across his brawny shoulders when he leans forward.
The scar on his left forearm that he probably got doing something classified that he's not allowed to talk about.
Geez… What the hell is wrong with me? I need to stop. Right now.
I clear my throat, a bit too loud. "Any questions?"
Wyatt pulls a small notebook from his back pocket—of course, he brought a notebook—and flips it open. "Yeah. What are you currently brewing?"
"I've got my flagship Salty Dog IPA in the final stages, there’s an experimental nut-brown ale I'm testing for the fall rotation, and a pale ale that's in secondary.
" I point to each tank as I name them. "Plus, I just kegged a batch of my Sandbar Ale yesterday. We’ll start another round of that tomorrow. "
"What's your best seller?"
"The Sandbar Ale, hands down. It's a blonde ale that’s light and crisp, and ideal for the beach crowd. We sell twice as much of it as anything else. It’s a perfect base for seasonal runs, so I try to have a batch going at all times."
He grunts, scribbling notes. "How long does it take to brew? The whole process from start to finish."
I lean against the counter, warming to the subject.
This is my territory, my expertise, and I love talking about it.
"Brewing day itself takes six to eight hours. That's mashing, lautering, boiling, cooling, and pitching the yeast. It’s a hands-on kind of day. For most beers, primary fermentation runs seven to fourteen days, depending on size of the batch and how fast the yeast works.”
I grin, watching him write as fast as he can. “The coffee infusion we’ll do takes two to seven days using coffee grounds in a cheesecloth bag. And then another five days or so for conditioning and carbonation."
Wyatt's pen stills. "So we're looking at a minimum of three weeks, possibly four?"
"If we’re lucky and don’t fuck up the batch, yes. Why?"
"Just calculating timelines. The competition judging is in five weeks. If we need three to four weeks for brewing, that gives us a little cushion."
"You're very organized for someone who spends his days roasting beans and making up ridiculous coffee names."
His eyes flash with amusement. "Marines plan everything. It's hardwired in me at this point."
"Well, Marine, you can relax. I know what I'm doing."
"I don't doubt it." He gestures at the notebook.
"But I spent last night researching coffee beers.
There are a lot of options—coffee stouts, coffee porters, coffee brown ales.
I'm thinking a traditional coffee porter would give us the best chance.
Dark beers pair naturally and the roasted malt complements the coffee notes. "
I blink at him slowly, like a cat deciding whether a mouse is worth the energy. "A porter."