"Nobody asked you, Gerald," Merri and I snarl in unison.
He raises his hands in surrender and disappears into the hallway.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to calm down. A fifty-thousand-dollar prize, plus an extra fifteen thousand for marketing. A four-page magazine spread with national exposure and an opportunity to expand Recon Roasters.
But working with Merri? I don’t think Gandhi could pull this off.
Merri's eyes narrow. "I can see your brain spinning like a hamster wheel. What are you planning?"
I study her expression. The stubborn set of her jaw, the way she's chewing on her bottom lip—a nervous habit I remember from when we were kids.
"I'm thinking this is the worst idea in the history of terrible ideas," I reply honestly.
"Agreed." She folds her arms across her chest in a huff.
"I'm also thinking that turning it down would be incredibly stupid."
She closes her eyes and blows out a long breath, deflating before my eyes. "I know."
We stand there for a long moment, the weight of the decision pressing on us both.
"We'd have to set ground rules," she says finally. "Strict boundaries and no pranks during the collaboration."
"No pranks?" I feel a pang at the thought. It’s like asking me to stop breathing.
"I'm serious, Wyatt. If—and I do meanif—I agree to this, we have to be professional. No sabotage and no more of your juvenile bullshit."
I consider this, fighting the obvious retort that she’s just as bad as me. Antagonizing her right now would only blow this up before it got started. "Okay. But what about after the competition?"
The corner of her mouth lifts, and my gaze drops there before I can stop it. "After the competition, all bets are off. You can expect nonstop humiliation from then on."
"Deal." I extend my hand.
She stares at it like it might bite her, then slowly reaches out. Her hand is smaller than mine, her grip firm. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through me that I ignore.
"Forty-eight hours." She yanks her hand away and rubs her arms in a soothing motion. "That's how long we have to decide."
"I already know my answer," I tell her. "The question is, can you work with me without losing your shit?"
"I don’t know." Her eyes flash. "Can you work with me without being an insufferable asshole?"
I can’t hold back the chuckle. That’s fair. "I make no promises."
"Then neither do I," she huffs, her jaw tight.
We eye each other for another moment, unease in her gaze. Then, almost simultaneously, we both nod.
"Fine," Merri snaps. "I'll do it. But I'm making one thing clear right now, this is my brewery on the line. If we're creating a coffee beer, it needs to be a good beer first. That means I'm in charge of the brewing."
"And I'm in charge of picking the coffee," I counter. "I'm not letting you ruin my reputation with a weak blend."
"I wouldn't dream of it," she says sweetly. "Just like I'm sure you wouldn't dream of overwhelming the beer with coffee that tastes like battery acid."
"My coffee does not taste like battery acid."
"Prove it."
Despite our promises of a truce, we're squared off again, that same electric tension humming in the space between us. This close, I can see the gold flecks in her green eyes and those cute freckles on her nose.
