Chapter 7
Wyatt
I'm standing outside The Sassy Siren with a bag of coffee cradled in both hands. It might as well be a bouquet of flowers for how ridiculous I must look. I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.
It's the day after the coffee infusion, and Merri texted this morning reminding me about the tasting this afternoon. Standard procedure. Nothing weird about it.
But everything changed when I admitted that, even though I’d gone about it like a world-class prick, I'd only been trying to protect her when we were kids.
I don't know if she believed me or if it even matters after all this time. Except I spent twenty minutes this morning selecting the perfect coffee blend to bring her. It’s my new Ethiopian roast with notes of blueberry and dark chocolate that I think she'll love.
And then I wasted another thirty minutes wondering why I care so much.
This is getting out of hand.
The incident yesterday, with us standing so close, the way her lips parted as she leaned in, has been playing on repeat in my head for the past twenty-four hours.
I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was the way her light green eyes had gone wide, softening as she'd looked at me like maybe, just maybe, she didn't actually hate me.
And then Admiral groaned and snapped us back to our senses. Thank God for that dog.
I push through the brewery door, and Tommy spots me immediately from behind the bar. He grins and jerks his thumb over his shoulder.
"She's in the production room."
"Thanks."
I head through the taproom, and stride confidently past the regulars nursing their afternoon beers.
Merri doesn't notice me at first. She's got her back to me, standing on a step stool as she scrubs the inside of one of the smaller fermentation tanks.
Her light brown hair is pulled back in a thick braid that hangs down her back, swaying slightly as she works.
She's wearing a tank top that shows off her toned arms and those khaki shorts that fit her ass perfectly.
And by perfectly, I mean they're doing absolutely nothing to help my current mental state.
I should probably announce myself. Instead, I just watch.
She moves with practiced efficiency, her whole body engaged in the work. Scrubbing, rinsing, checking her progress. There's something almost meditative about the way she works, like she's completely in her element. This is her domain, her craft, and she's damn good at it.
I've always thought Merri was gorgeous. Even when we were kids, and she was driving me absolutely insane, I couldn't deny that she was beautiful. The problem was that the moment she opened her mouth, all that beauty got eclipsed by her infuriating personality.
But lately I'm starting to think maybe that is part of what makes her so attractive.
She's passionate and driven, refusing to back down or settle for second best. She built this brewery from nothing, and she did it without compromising her vision or her standards. That takes guts and the kind of strength that's impossible not to respect.
Merri shifts her weight, reaching for a different section of the tank, and her shorts pull tight across her ass. I shift to ease the sudden tightness in my jeans.
She finally senses my presence and turns, catching me mid-stare. Her brows shoot up.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Just walked in," I lie.
"Uh-huh." She climbs down from the step stool, a knowing smirk on her face. "Were you checking out my ass, Dalton?"
A month ago, that question would've been laced with venom. Now, there's a playful tone in her voice.
I decide to lean into it. "Maybe I was admiring your tank-cleaning technique. It’s very thorough."
"Sure. My technique." She crosses her arms, drawing my attention exactly where it shouldn't go, but she's fighting a smile. "That's what you were looking at."
"I would never objectify my business partner, Gallagher."
"Business partner?" She laughs, the sound bright and genuine. "Is that what we're calling this?"
"Temporary collaborative associates?"
"That sounds very official," she teases.
I hold up the bag of coffee like a peace offering, suddenly feeling awkward. "I brought you something. It’s my latest roast, and probably my best. I thought you might want to try it."
Her expression softens. "You brought me coffee?"
"Don't make it weird. It's just beans."
"It's never 'just beans' with you." But she takes the bag, examining the label. "Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. Natural process." She presses her nose to the bag and hums low. "This smells incredible, Wyatt."
I shrug, trying my best to be nonchalant and not seem so damned pleased at her praise. "I know what I'm doing."
"I know you do." She meets my eyes, and the warmth there nearly unravels me. "Thank you. I'll brew some later and let you know what I think."
"You'd better. I want detailed tasting notes," I joke.
She snorts. "Of course you do." She sets the bag carefully on the counter, then gestures to the brite tank. "Are you ready to taste our baby?"
I rub my hands together, excited to see how it’s turning out. "I was born ready."
We move to the tank where the coffee bags are still steeping in the beer. Merri opens the valve and pours a small sample of golden liquid into a single tasting glass.
"We can share," she says, holding up the glass. "You don’t mind my cooties, right?"
"Not much scares me anymore, Gallagher."
She rolls her eyes at my joke then takes the first sip. My gaze lingers on the way her lips wrap around the rim of the glass, the way her throat works as she swallows, and I have to force myself to think about literally anything else.
Global warming. Inflation. Baseball statistics. Anything.
She hands me the glass, and I take a sip from the exact same spot her lips just touched. The beer hits my tongue with its crisp blonde ale base, and underneath it, the faintest hint of coffee. But it's not quite right yet. The coffee is there, but too weak.
"It’s not ready," I say.
"Agreed." Merri takes the glass back, takes another small sip. "Another twelve to eighteen hours should do it. The coffee needs more time to fully infuse."
"Tomorrow afternoon, then?"
She bobs her head. "Yes."
She sets the glass down and turns back to the tank she was cleaning. I should leave. I've done what I came here to do. The tasting is complete, we have a plan, and there's no reason for me to stick around.
"Want some help?" The words are out before I can stop them.
Merri turns, surprise written all over her face. "You want to help me clean a fermentation tank?"
"Why not? I'm here. You're working. Might as well make myself useful, and it’s not much different than the cleaning I do on my roasting equipment."
"Wyatt Dalton, offering to do manual labor for me. I should buy a lottery ticket."
I level her with a flat stare. "Don't be a smartass. Do you want help or not?"
She studies me for a long moment, like she's trying to figure out my angle. Then she shrugs. "Sure. Grab one of those brushes over there."
We work in companionable silence for a few minutes, scrubbing the interior of the tank. It's meditative, repetitive work, and I find myself relaxing into it.
"So," I say, breaking the silence. "How'd you get into brewing? What made you decide this was what you wanted to do?"
Merri glances at me, her eyes narrowing. "You really want to know?"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't."
"Hmmm." She goes back to scrubbing. "Well, I initially planned to go into accounting or maybe finance.
But I took a brewing science elective my junior year, and it just clicked.
I loved the chemistry of it, the creativity, the way you could take basic ingredients and create something completely unique. "
"So you went to Colorado after graduation?"
"Yep. Rocky Mountain Craft Brewery picked me up right out of school. I spent two years there learning everything I could, from proper techniques to recipe development and quality control to distribution logistics. It was intense but incredible."
I rinse my section of the tank, genuinely curious now. "Did you like living there?"
"The mountains and craft beer scene are incredible. But…" She pauses, her expression turning thoughtful. "I kept thinking about building a first-class brewery in Pelican Point. Something smaller that would fit the town and focused on quality over quantity. There’s so much competition for breweries out west, it’s difficult to get a foothold. Most small breweries out there don’t last two years. I had a better chance to succeed here."
"So you came home."
She smiles. "I took out every loan I could get, bought used equipment from a brewery that was closing, and started The Sassy Siren Brewery in a space that was previously a surf shop. It was terrifying and exhilarating and the best decision I ever made."
"It shows. This place is impressive, Merri. You should be proud."
She looks at me, a flicker of vulnerability on her face. "Thanks. That means a lot, Wyatt."
We fall into silence, but it's not awkward. Something's shifted between us, and some of those walls aren’t there anymore.
"What about you?" she asks after a while. "How'd you end up in coffee? Danny told me you were a big, bad Marine, traveling the world and blowing shit up. What made you choose coffee roasting after you got out?"
"Coffee was a lifeline in the Corps. It didn't matter where we were deployed, Iraq, Afghanistan, wherever, if we had coffee, we could function. I’ve always liked coffee, but I became obsessed with the different roasts and origins, and what made a good cup versus a great one.
" I rinse another section. "When I got out, I knew I wanted to work with my hands and build something.
Coffee roasting made sense. It's precise and methodical, but there's also an art to it. "
"Like brewing."
The corner of my mouth tugs up. "Yeah. Exactly that."
"What's your favorite part? Of roasting, I mean."
"The transformation. You start with these green beans that smell like grass and hay, and through careful application of heat and time, you unlock all these incredible flavors. Chocolate, fruit, nuts, spices. It's like magic."
Merri nods slowly, understanding in her gaze. "That's how I feel about beer. Watching the yeast convert sugar to alcohol, as the hops add bitterness and aroma, both creating something that people enjoy."
"We're nerds. That's what this is."
She snickers. "The nerdiest."
We finish the tank and turn to the empty kegs in the corner. The whole time, we're talking about beer, coffee, and the businesses we've built. And somewhere in between discussing fermentation temperatures and roast profiles, I realize I'm having fun.
Real, genuine, not-trying-to-one-up-each-other fun. With Merri Gallagher.
What kind of alternate universe is this?
"So," I hear myself say, "you want to grab dinner?"
Merri freezes, a rag in her hand. "What?"
"Dinner. Food. For research purposes, of course." I'm talking too fast, trying to sound casual. "I mean, we're collaborating on this beer. We should probably know more about each other's palates, right? What flavors we like, what we hate." I shrug. "It's practical."
She stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Are you asking me out on a date, Dalton?"
"What? No. Like I said, it's research for the competition." But even as I say it, I know it's bullshit. And from the look on Merri's face, she suspects it too.
"Research," she deadpans.
"Exactly."
"For the competition." She draws out that last word.
"Mmmhmm…"
She stands, wiping her hands with the towel, a slow smile spreading across her face. "You're asking me to dinner, and you're trying to pretend it's for professional reasons."
"I'm not—" I stop, running a hand through my hair. "Okay, fine. Maybe I just want to have dinner with you. You’re my best friend’s baby sister. Is that so weird?"
"Considering we've been at each other's throats for twenty years, it's pretty fucking weird."
"We don't hate each other."
"We did just three weeks ago."
"That was three weeks ago. This is now." I hold her gaze, leaning forward to make my point. "Come on, Gallagher. It's just dinner. What's the worst that could happen?"
"We could kill each other before dessert."
"I'll risk it if you will. Either way, we’ll give the town gossips something to talk about."
"As tempting as that sounds, I have plans tonight."
"Tomorrow, then."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing the decision. Finally, she nods.
"Okay. But I'm picking the place, and you're paying since this was your idea."
"Deal."
"And we're still calling it research."
"Absolutely." She can call it whatever she wants. I don’t give a damn. Merri Gallagher agreed to dinner with me and it's taking every ounce of self-control not to grin like a complete idiot.
"Right." The corner of her mouth tilts up. "What time?"
"After we do the second tasting?"
She shrugs. "Works for me."
We stare at each other for another beat, the weight of what we just agreed to settling between us. Then Admiral wanders in from the taproom, takes one look at us, and makes a sound that's halfway between a groan and a sigh.
"I know, buddy," I tell the dog. "I'm confused too."
Merri laughs, and the sound hits me right in the chest. I lean against the counter and watch her, memorizing the way her eyes twinkle.
It’s official: this collaboration is going to wreck me.
But I'm starting to think that might be okay.