She can join the fucking club.
Mayor Snyder shifts uncomfortably, pulling at his collar as if it’s suddenly too tight. "I’m afraid the category setup has already been decided. It’s The Sassy Siren Brewery and Recon Roasters against Shoreline Smoothies and Ferment and Flow. Jennifer's team believes the collaborations would make a compelling story."
"A story," I repeat slowly, letting each word land with the weight it deserves. "You want to turn our businesses into fucking clickbait."
"Into content," Ms. Mitchell corrects, as if the distinction matters. "Specifically, human-interest content. The enemies-to-partners narrative is very popular, and rivals forced to worktogether makes it even better. It's captivating, and our editor-in-chief was quite taken with the idea. In fact, she insisted on it."
I stand up, my chair screeching against the worn tile floor. "Absolutely not."
Merri shoots to her feet as well. "Exactly. I'd rather brew with swamp water than collaborate with this nincompoop."
I shoot her my best "zip it" glare, which she ignores. The room erupts with Merri throwing a tantrum about fairness, Gerald muttering about dramatics, and MaryJo slowly sinking under the table. The mayor is trying, yet failing, to calm everyone down, his rambling only adding to the chaos.
"ENOUGH!" Ms. Mitchell's voice cuts through the noise like a blade. We all freeze.
She slides a paper across the table. "Here's the plan and it’snotnegotiable. Each team will have a booth at the Country Living Showcase, which is now only five weeks away. Attendees will vote on the collaborations that day. The winning team will have a four-page spread in our magazine instead of one page, a video feature on our website, and each team member will receive the fifty-thousand-dollar prize." She pauses for effect. "Plus, we’ll include an additional tourism board marketing package worth fifteen thousand dollars. Each."
"Hold up." All eyes turn to me. "Is this on top of the fifty-thousand-dollar prize?"
Ms. Mitchell’s lips twitch. "If your team wins the collaboration category, then yes, that’s correct. That’s sixty-five thousand dollars for you and the same for Ms. Gallagher."
I slowly sink into my chair, already crunching the numbers. That kind of marketing exposure and cash could mean new wholesale accounts, more online sales, maybe even a second location someday.
But working with Merri Gallagher? My stomach twists.
"What if we refuse?" Merri asks as she plops her butt down. Her voice has lost some of its fire, but her chin still has that stubborn tilt that suggests she’s not done fighting.
Ms. Mitchell's smile is predatory. "Then you're disqualified from the competition entirely. This collaboration is all-or-nothing for the four of you. Either you work together on what we’ve asked, or none of you compete."
"But this is impossible," Merri protests.
"Impossible is just a state of mind, Ms. Gallagher," Ms. Mitchell answers. "This is about Pelican Point getting national exposure. Your businesses will get unprecedented marketing reach, even if you don’t win, and we get a story that resonates with our readers. Everyone wins."
"Except us," I mutter.
"Think of it as an opportunity," the mayor says weakly. "To, uh, bridge your differences and build the community. Wyatt, this puts Pelican Point on the map in a big way."
I glower at him and feel a smidge of satisfaction as he wilts in his chair.
Ms. Mitchell stands, smoothing her suit. "You have forty-eight hours to decide. But let me be clear, our editor was very specific. It's the collaborations or nothing at all."
After dropping that final bomb, she leaves without another word, her heels clicking against the linoleum with military precision. The mayor scurries after her, mumbling about hospitality and showing her the lighthouse.
The moment they're gone, Merri turns to me, her eyes blazing. "This is your fault," she snaps.
I slow blink. "How is this possibly my fault?"
She throws a finger in my direction. "Your stupid pranks got us on social media! If you'd just left me alone, we wouldn't be in this mess!"
"Me?" I stand and plant my hands on the table, leaning over her. "Woman, you’re the one taking it to social media. Do you realize how many fucking orders I’ve had for a damned fairy tale blend? And let’s not forget who sent the Neon Brigade to my roastery for a tasting. This is all you!"
She jumps to her feet, matching my stance. "You put my phone number in bathroom stalls, telling guys to send me pics of their poop, and you hacked my Bluetooth speaker!"
We're head-to-head now, both of us breathing hard. She smells good enough that I nearly lose my train of thought for a second. Gerald and MaryJo have quietly edged toward the door.
"This is insane," Merri says, her voice dropping. "A coffee beer? That’s so lame."
"Those are my favorite." Gerald injects, looking entirely too pleased. "When they’re done well, they're quite sophisticated."
