Chapter 8 #2
"Yeah." My voice comes out breathier than I intended. "One more day should do it."
"Perfect." He sets the glass down, still staring at me. "Are you ready for dinner?"
Gah! I can't think straight when he looks at me like that. What happened to the guy who used to put bugs in my backpack?
"I need to clean up first. I've been working all day, and I probably smell like hops and yeast."
"You smell great to me."
Wonderful. Now I'm blushing like a teenager. "That's because you smell coffee all the time. Your nose is broken." I grab my keys and phone from the counter. "I’ll meet you at the restaurant. It's Sal's Pizza on—"
"I know where Sal's is. And I'm picking you up."
I blink. "What?"
He edges closer, hemming me in. "It's a date, Merri. I'm picking you up properly."
My jaw drops. It’s just like Heather predicted. "You said this was for research."
"I know what I said. But I was lying."
A buzz shoots through me. "How do you even know where I live?"
He shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "I know lots of things."
"That's fucking creepy, Wyatt."
He shrugs. "Or observant. Take your pick." He checks his watch. "I'll be at your place in an hour. Is that enough time?"
I should argue, insist on meeting him there, maintaining some semblance of independence and control. But instead, I hear myself say, "An hour works."
"Good. See you soon, Gallagher."
And then he's gone, leaving me standing in my production room, heart racing and wondering what the hell I’ve agreed to.
Wyatt shows up at my house at exactly 6:30 PM, because of course he does. The man is pathologically punctual.
I spent the past hour speed-cleaning my living room, changing my outfit three times, and giving myself a stern talking-to in the mirror about how this is just about the collaboration and not to make it weird.
None of it helps.
I open the door to Wyatt, standing on my porch looking even better than he did this afternoon. He's changed his shirt again, into a dark blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal those ridiculous forearms, and he's holding a small bouquet of flowers.
"You brought flowers?" I blurt out, horrified.
"They're from Mrs. Marshall's garden. She saw me leaving and insisted." But there's a slight flush on his cheeks that suggests maybe he's not being entirely truthful.
I accept them with more reluctance than they deserve, the stems still warm from his hand. "Come in while I put these in water."
Admiral wanders over to greet him and get a few pets before meandering to his bed in the corner.
The wildflowers are bright and cheerful, and I set them in a vase on my kitchen counter. "Thanks. They're beautiful."
"You're welcome." His eyes do a quick scan of my house, taking in the cozy living room with its beach-themed decor and the framed photos of my family. "Nice place."
"It's small, but it's mine."
"That's what matters." His gaze meets mine, and there’s excitement twinkling in his eyes that I’m afraid to know about.
The drive to Sal's takes less than ten minutes. We make small talk about the weather and the brewery, carefully avoiding anything too personal. I'm painfully aware of how close he is in the truck's cabin, of the clean scent of his soap, of the way his hand rests casually on the gearshift.
But when we walk into the restaurant, the low hum of conversation dies. Forks pause in mid-air and all heads swivel in our direction.
Great. It’s exactly like Heather said. By tomorrow morning, most of the town will think we're dating and the other half will be placing bets on when the fistfight breaks out.
Our waitress, Rosa, who's worked at Sal's for as long as I can remember, seats us at a corner booth and hands us menus with barely concealed glee.
"Well, well, well," she says, grinning. "Merri Gallagher and Wyatt Dalton. Sitting together at the same table without visible weapons. This is a historic moment."
"We're very evolved," Wyatt says dryly.
"Clearly." Rosa pulls out her notepad. "What can I get you to drink?" We order, and Rosa disappears, leaving us alone in our fishbowl of a booth.
"Why is everyone staring?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Because we're the entertainment," Wyatt says. "The whole town has witnessed our feud. Now they're waiting to see if we'll start throwing pizza at each other."
"Maybe we should." I shrug. "You know, give them a show."
Wyatt plants his arms on the table and leans in, his mouth slanted at a mischievous angle. "Or we could really blow their minds and have a pleasant dinner."
I snort. "What a radical concept."
Rosa returns with our drinks and takes our food order, and I’m shocked that Wyatt and I have the same taste in pizza—a large pepperoni and mushroom. Of course we do.
Once she's gone, Wyatt relaxes in the booth, studying me with those hypnotic blue eyes that never miss a thing. "So. What do you want to know?"
"About what?"
"About me. This is a getting-to-know-you dinner, right? So ask me something."
I consider this, taking a sip of beer. There are a thousand things I could ask, but there’s one particular question I’ve been curious about.
"What was it like? Being in the Marines. Force Recon, specifically."
Wyatt's brows lift. "It was intense. Eight years of constant adrenaline, deployments I can't talk about, life-or-death situations on a regular basis.
" He rotates his water glass, watching the ice shift.
"You train for years to be the best, to handle impossible situations, to never break.
And then one day you're out of the Corps, and all that training doesn't apply to civilian life. It’s hard for a lot of guys to make that transition. "
The lost look on his face makes my chest tighten. "Is that why you came back to Pelican Point?"
"Partly. My grandmother left me her house when she passed, and I needed somewhere to regroup.
To figure out what came next." He meets my gaze.
"Starting Recon Roasters gave me roots and some stability.
The precision required in roasting is similar to what I did in the military, but now I create something people enjoy. "
His raw and honest tone melts whatever resistance I had. "That makes sense. Creating versus destroying."
"Exactly." He takes a sip of water. "What about you?"
"You’ve already heard my story. Colorado was great to learn about beer, but Pelican Point is home. It's where I wanted to put my brewery, and the perfect opportunity opened right when I needed it."
"The Sassy Siren is impressive, Merri. You should be proud of what you’ve built."
"Thanks." I pick at my napkin, uncomfortable with his praise. "It's been hard. Starting a business from scratch and competing with established breweries in the area. But I love it."
"I get that. Creating something from nothing is terrifying and exhilarating."
"Exactly." I smile. It’s nice to be understood.
The pizza arrives, and we dig in, our conversation flowing easily between bites. We talk about everything—our businesses, the competition, Danny.
"Oh, wow," I say, after glancing at the clock on the wall. "We've been here for three hours."
Wyatt checks his watch, surprised. "Huh. So we have."
"And with no insult in sight," I tease.
"Not one," he agrees, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Are we broken?"
"Possibly. Or maybe…" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.
"Maybe we're just getting to know each other. As actual people instead of practiced enemies."
"What a terrifying thought."
"Terrifying," he agrees. "But maybe not entirely bad."
Our eyes lock, and the air between us turns charged and impossibly complicated.
"We should probably go," I murmur. "Before the waitstaff starts charging us rent."
"Probably."
But neither of us moves.
Rosa appears with the check, saving us from whatever moment we were about to have. Wyatt pays, and we head out into the warm Florida night. The drive back to my house is quiet, but it's not uncomfortable. When he pulls up to my curb, he puts the truck in park but doesn't turn off the engine.
"Thanks for dinner," I comment. "It was nice."
"Yeah. It was." He turns to me, his expression serious. "Merri, I—"
My heart stumbles. I'm not ready. Whatever words are forming behind those blue eyes, I can feel their weight from here, and I'm not ready to carry them yet.
"Don't." I put my hand on his arm, stopping him. "Whatever you're about to say, just not yet. Okay?"
His eyes shoot to my hand on his arm, then back to my face. "Okay."
"Goodnight, Wyatt."
"Goodnight, Merri."
I get out of the truck and walk up my porch stairs, acutely aware that he's watching me. When I turn back to wave, he's still there, waiting until I'm safely inside. I close the door and lean against it, my pulse racing.
Admiral lifts his head from his bed, his ears perked as he watches me with a patient stare.
"Don't start," I tell him. "It was research for the competition."
His tail thumps once against the cushion, then he settles back with a long exhale through his nose. He doesn't believe me either.