Chapter 4 #2
He nods, completely missing the disdain in my tone. "Or a stout. Either would work. I brought research." He flips through his notebook, showing me pages filled with notes about beer styles, IBU ranges, and coffee-to-beer ratios.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and count to three. "That's very thorough, Wyatt, but we're not making a porter."
His frown appears instantly. "Why not?"
"Because I don't do standard beers, Wyatt. Every brewery and their damned cousin makes a coffee porter or a coffee stout. You heard what Ms. Mitchell said before she left. We can’t go with standard. We have to blow the socks off those judges. And a coffee blonde ale will do that."
"A coffee blonde." His voice is flat.
"Yes. Just trust me. When they’re done right, they’re amazing.
A coffee blonde is light and refreshing, perfect for Florida's climate.
And with the right coffee blend, it'll be sophisticated and surprising. It’s unexpected excellence that wins competitions, not the same old bullshit that every Joe Schmoe makes. "
"Or maybe it'll taste like watered-down coffee with bubbles."
My hands go to my hips. "Excuse me?"
"I'm just saying, there's a reason most coffee beers are dark. The malt profile supports the coffee. With a blonde ale, you're fighting against the style instead of working with it."
"No, I'm elevating the style. There's a difference." I step closer, jabbing my finger at his chest. "I'm the expert brewer here, remember? You roast the coffee. I brew the beer. That’s the deal. And I'm telling you, a coffee blonde ale is what will win this competition."
"And I'm the expert on coffee," he counters, not backing down an inch. "Which is half of this equation. Maybe we should consider both options."
"We don't have time to consider both options.
We need to commit to one direction and execute it perfectly.
" I inhale slowly, counting backward from five as that familiar frustration builds.
"This is my brewery, my reputation, and I'm not going to play it safe with some boring, predictable porter just because you did a little Google research last night. "
His jaw flexes. "It wasn't Google research. I talked to three different brewers who specialize in coffee beers. They all said the same thing—dark beers are the safer bet."
"Safe doesn't win competitions. Memorable does."
"Memorable for the wrong reasons isn't going to help us either."
We're squared off like boxers in a ring, except there's no referee to pull us apart. I can smell his coffee, and underneath that, something that's just him. Clean soap and a woodsy spice.
"Hey, uh, guys?" Tommy's voice breaks through the tension. He's standing in the doorway, looking between us with wide eyes. Admiral is at his side, watching us with the patience of a dog who's seen this exact scenario play out a thousand times. "Maybe we should all take a breath?"
I step back, running my hands through my ponytail. "We're fine."
"Totally fine," Wyatt agrees, but his voice is tight.
"Right." Tommy doesn't look convinced. "Well, I'm just going to finish cleaning this tank and pretend I'm invisible." He saunters to the far corner.
Admiral, however, ambles over and plants himself directly between me and Wyatt like some kind of furry barrier.
I take a deep breath, trying to channel some of that professionalism I promised myself I'd maintain. "I understand your concerns. But I know my beer, Wyatt, and I know what works in this market. A coffee blonde ale is the right choice."
Wyatt holds my gaze, and I can almost see the moment the fight drains out of him, his eyes going soft before the rest of his face catches up. Finally he sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. "Fine. Coffee blonde ale it is."
My jaw goes slack. "Really?"
"You're the brewing expert. I'll defer to your judgment." He holds up a hand before I can start celebrating. "But I'm in charge of the coffee component. No arguments. I'll deliver the best possible blend to complement your base beer, and you don't question my choices there. Deal?"
It's a fair compromise. I nod. "Deal."
"Good." His posture relaxes. "So what's next?"
"I've set aside two kegs of Sandbar Ale for us to test with different coffee blends. You bring over samples of your best coffees, and I'll infuse small batches so we can test different combinations. They should be ready to taste in a few days."
"How small are we talking?"
"Growler-sized batches. Sixty-four ounces. Enough to get a real sense of the flavor profile."
He grunts, making another note in his notebook. "I can bring five different blends. Will that work?"
"Five is good. And we'll do a blind tasting."
His mouth quirks. "You don't trust me to be objective about my own coffee?"
"I don't trust either of us to be objective. We'll both have favorites. This way, we let the beer speak for itself."
"Good point." He snaps his notebook shut and slides it into his pocket. "When do you want to start?"
"The beer is ready, so bring the coffee by today. I'll infuse the batches tonight, and we can try them on Saturday."
He nods. "That works. I'll get my best stuff and be back in a bit."
We stare at each other for a beat, and then—impossibly—we both smile. It's a small truce, but it's there.
"This is going to be interesting," I comment.
"That's one word for it." Wyatt drops his gaze to Admiral, who manages to lean against both of us at the same time. "At least someone's staying neutral."
"Admiral's always been the smart one in any room."
"Can't argue with that."
I snag the breakfast burritos on our way to the taproom, and don’t miss how Wyatt eyes them with obvious interest.
"You should eat these before they get cold," I say, trying to sound casual. "They're from Mario's."
"You don’t want one? Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Consider it a peace offering."
He grabs a burrito, unwrapping it with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. "Peace offering accepted." He takes a bite and closes his eyes. "God, these are good."
I pour myself some of his coffee, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a sip. It's perfect—smooth and balanced, with just enough complexity to keep it interesting. Damn him and his stupid talented palate.
"This coffee is really good," I admit reluctantly.
"Thanks." He takes another gargantuan bite of burrito, then adds, "These are fantastic."
We stand there in the taproom, drinking coffee and eating breakfast burritos, and for the first time in years, it doesn't feel hostile. It feels comfortable, almost friendly. Like maybe we can actually pull this off without destroying each other.
"So," Wyatt says, breaking the silence. "If my calculations are correct, our base beer—which is currently fermenting—will be ready once we decide the right combination."
"Plus or minus a few days, yes. Don’t worry, Wyatt. Our beer will be done within the competition’s timeline."
He eyes me for a moment, then nods. "Have you heard from your brother lately?"
"Yep. He said something about taking leave to visit soon."
"I heard. It must suck that the rest of your family moved away. I was surprised you decided to put your brewery here and not in Charleston where your folks are."
I fight a sneer, trying my best not to dive back into hostility after we established this tenuous ceasefire. "I’ve been on my own for several years now, Wyatt. I don’t need to live with mommy and daddy anymore."
He holds his hands up. "I wasn’t insinuating anything, Merri. I just know how close you guys always were. And now with Danny stationed in California, you’re all alone here."
I shrug. "I can handle myself."
His deep chuckle resonates in my belly, and I absolutely hate it. There’s no way I find this guy attractive.
"I’m well aware of that, Merri."
"Good." I take another sip of coffee, studying him over the rim of my cup. He’s scanning the taproom with that same assessing expression he had in the production room, like he's cataloging every detail. It should annoy me. Instead, it makes me curious.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Just trying to figure you out."
He snorts, his eyes twinkling. "Good luck with that." But there's no edge to his words, only a hint of amusement. "I've been trying to figure you out since we were kids."
Something flutters in my chest at those words. I ignore it.
He snags the other burritos and gives me a nod. "I’ll be back in a couple hours with the blends." Before I can respond, he's already heading for the door, Admiral trotting alongside him like they're old friends. Which, I suppose, they are.
"Later," he says over his shoulder. And then he's gone, the door swinging shut, leaving Admiral staring after him and me with my thoughts and a half-empty carafe of excellent coffee.
Tommy emerges from the back. "Well. That was surprisingly civilized."
I shrug. "We’re not neanderthals, Tommy. We can be professional."
"Uh-huh. Is that why you're smiling?"
"I'm not smiling."
"You totally are. You've got that weird look you get when you're pleased about something but don't want to admit it."
I force my expression into a neutral mask, going for nonchalant. "I'm relieved we have a plan. That's all. We just might pull this off."
"Sure." Tommy grins. "A plan. That's definitely what that was about."
I throw a dish towel at his head. He catches it, laughing, and disappears back into the production room.
I slide onto a barstool and stare out the window. Admiral trots over, nudging his head under my hand, and I scratch behind his ears the way Wyatt did. "What do you think, Admiral?" I ask softly. "Can I actually work with Wyatt Dalton without losing my mind?"
Admiral huffs and closes his eyes, which I choose to interpret as a yes.
This collaboration will either be brilliant or a total catastrophe. Knowing us? It’ll probably be both.