"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."
He nods, completely missing the disdain in my tone. "Or a stout. Either would work. I brought research." He flips throughhis 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?"
