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 toneeda 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. Wyattdoeslook 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?"
"Iboughtbreakfast," 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.
