"Excuse me, Mayor Snyder?" Wyatt's deep voice cuts through the room, and every head turns his way. He stands up, all six feet four inches of muscled former Marine, and I want to throw something at him on principle. No man who is so irritating and juvenile should look that good. "I have a question. Would a coffee roasting business fall under the retail or beverage category?"
"I can answer that." Ms. Mitchell stands, her eyes darting to me, then back to Wyatt. "Coffee, including a roasting operation, would fall under the beverage category for the purposes of this competition."
His lips twist in a competitive smirk as he eyes me again. "Perfect. Just wanted to make sure."
Oh, he wants to play, does he? Fine. It’s on like Donkey Kong. I won’t mind stomping his tender ego into the ground one more time.
I stand up too, ignoring Tommy's muttered "Oh, here we go" beside me. "Mayor Snyder, I hate to interrupt, but I think we should save Mr. Dalton the trouble of entering. The Sassy Siren Brewery has this category locked down." I turn to Wyatt with mysweetest smile. "No hard feelings, Dalton. I know you'll try your best."
A hush settles over the crowd. Someone coughs. Then total silence.
Wyatt's eyes narrow, but that infuriating grin doesn't leave his face. "That's adorable, Gallagher. I appreciate the concern." He tilts his head, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "But I wouldn't want to spoil your delusions of grandeur before the competition even starts. Where's the fun in that? I know how much you adore your fairy tales."
The entire room erupts in laughter. I press my lips together, trying to block the snort that wants to escape, but it's no use. The comment is so perfectly Wyatt, that I can't help it.
"Fairy tales, huh?" I manage. "Is that the best you've got, Dalton?"
"I'm saving my best material for when you lose," he retorts, still grinning.
A few more chuckles rise up. Even the mayor struggles to keep a straight face, and there’s a gleam in Ms. Mitchell’s gaze that suggests she’s enjoying the show.
The other business owners exchange knowing glances around the room. Jim from the hardware store elbows his wife. Sarah from the bookstore leans toward the art gallery owner, whispering behind her hand. Everyone in this room knows about our years-long war, and the fact that only a brick wall separates our businesses makes it even more entertaining. We're basically dinner theatre at this point.
Mayor Snyder clears his throat, his smile distinctly nervous. "Well. I'm glad to see such enthusiasm for the competition. Entries are due by Friday, and the judging will take place in six weeks at the Country Living Showcase. This is a big deal, folks. So I hope you’re taking this seriously."
He very deliberately avoids looking at me or Wyatt as he continues with the rest of the agenda.
I don’t care. My mind whirls with the certainty that I’ll finally beat Wyatt Dalton at something that truly matters. This won’t be a stupid prank, but a legitimate competition.
I'm going to utterly destroy him.
The next morning, I arrive at The Sassy Siren before sunrise, which is impressive because I am not a morning person. But I have a competition entry to perfect, and I'm not about to let Wyatt get the jump on me.
My flagship Sandbar Ale is the obvious choice, and I set to work immediately. It’s my best-seller, and for good reason. The crisp blonde ale with citrus notes is made for Florida's climate and half the restaurants within fifty miles carry it. If any beer is going to win this competition for me, it's this one.
I'm in the middle of checking the pH levels when Tommy strolls in, looking considerably more awake than any twenty-three-year-old has a right to at eight in the morning.
"Morning, boss," he says, grabbing his apron from the hook. "You're here early."
"I want this batch to be perfect." I’ll literally sleep at the brewery if that’s what it takes to beat Wyatt’s ass like a drum.
Tommy snorts. "As if any of your batches aren't perfect. You're going to win this thing easily."
"Don't jinx it," I snap, resisting the urge to knock on wood. "Have you heard what Wyatt plans to enter?"
"Oh yeah." Tommy's grin is positively gleeful. "Jake from the print shop told me last night that Wyatt's submitting his signature single-origin medium roast. You know, the one thatsupplies, like, every coffee shop and restaurant in the area and supposedly ships nationwide?"
I frown. "Nationwide?"
"I mean, I assume it does. The postman is always picking up shipments next door." Tommy shrugs. "But come on. Coffee versus craft beer? You've got this in the bag."
I want to believe him that it’s a foregone conclusion. I really do. But I know Wyatt, and I know his coffee. As much as it pains me to admit, the man can seriously roast beans. His blends are legitimately good and distinctive enough that local shops will only brew his roasts.
But Tommy’s right. My beer is better.
"Yeah," I say, more to convince myself than Tommy. "I've totally got this." Despite the fact my confidence is wobbling like a Jenga tower seconds before collapse.
Tommy gives me a thumbs up and heads to the cold room to start his morning tasks.
