Page 1 of It Happened in Vegas

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THE HOP-PENING

SOPHIE HATCHETT

I didn’t needcaffeine today, jittery enough over this meeting, although it didn’t hurt. I also didn’t need prayers, although I would’ve accepted a wink and nod from the universe if it came with a salted caramel cupcake from Vivian’s Cupcake Cottage down the road.

What I needed was simple: my pitch deck, my favorite bold-red power suit body-con dress with matching blazer, and the right lighting on the slide that would win over the broodiest brewer in Holly Creek and his billionaire investor.

I clicked the controller, and the show was on.

The new Holly Creek Hops Brewery logo beamed extra large on the screen behind me. Playful and modern, the black ink design of a stylized hop cone worn as a beard on a dude with sunglasses and fabulous hair exuded a cool vibe. The slogan, “BrewedWithLove,” sat emblazoned on the circle bordering the image.

It was the kind of branding that made you want to open a bottle of craft beer no matter who you were, even if you were more fancy wine-and-cheese than casual beer-and-BBQ type. I hoped.

Like I unveiled a new era, I turned toward the boardroom table at Richard’s home office—and in a way, I was.

“Now this,” I said with a flourish, chin up, “is the next chapter of Holly Creek Hops Brewery. It’s confident. Cool. A little mischievous. Just like the man behind it.”

I gestured toward Keaton Kingston and was met with his broody glare as he slouched at the end of the table like he’d rather be anywhere else. His arms were crossed over that annoyingly broad chest—and was that a wink of his pec muscles flexing at me? His flannel sleeves were shoved up to reveal forearms and sinful tattoos that had no business looking that good at this early hour of the morning.

He was stupidly hot. Like, full-on crush, making me rethink my entire existence kind of hot. And the dark shade of stubble across his face didn’t help. Or the way he sneered at the logo, like it had personally attacked him.

Richard Buchanan, seated beside him in his tailored casual wear—khakis and polo shirt which, since he’d moved to Holly Creek, seemed to be his new uniform compared to the suits he always wore in New York City—gave a polite nod. “It’s stylish. Eye-catching.”

“My testing shows that this logo appeals to both men and women in your target age group. Men want to be cool like that, and women, well, want todatea cool man like that,” I added with a wink.

Keaton snorted. Okay, maybe I was wrong about him. I’d hoped we could get over the fact that I went from simply the flirty woman in our group of friends, to now taking over his entire marketing campaign. He had no idea that each time I sat at the bar talking to him at his brewery—I was doing more than checkinghimout.

Everything at the Hops came under my scrutiny. His marketing and labeling were like my kryptonite, and I took it as my personal mission to help this guy be more successful.

I pitched Richard first, as the investor, knowing he’d be more adaptable to my marketing campaign ideas. And I was right about Keaton being more of a challenge to win over.

“Which in the mind of the average craft brew drinker, should translate into more desire to drink, meaning more sales. Is that right?” Richard asked, all business, nothing personal.

“Yes. Absolutely.” I agreed with him and clicked through a few more slides, showing seasonal depictions of the same logo. Then I leaned over, placing my hands on the boardroom table, staring at Keaton down the center, who faced me at the other end. Just for fun, I flexed my own chest, and said, “The craft brew scene has an entire vibe, and I want to help you tap into that more. This logo rebranding is just the start.”

“She’s got flair, Keaton. And the logo is impressive. What do you think?” Richard arched a brow at him, clearly as impatient as I was for some sort of reaction other than a grunt. But still nothing from Mr. Grumpy until he stood and walked closer to the image on the screen.

This was like dragging words out of a man who’d been forced into therapy when he didn’t want to talk. Finally, he opened his mouth. I waited with bated breath at whatever he’d deem us worthy to know.

“You don’t like my original logo?” He asked.

“Well, it has a certain handmade appeal. Homespun. Home town. There’s a place for that, but in my opinion, if you want to attract a national distributor, a new logo with on-target branding is the first place to start.”

“Paris helped me draw the old logo,” he huffed. “I’ve been kind of attached to it.”

My stomach flipped. Not the butterflies kind. The oh no, what have I done? kind. Paris was his niece, and, while healthy now, had some serious issues when she was little, landing her in the hospital for some time. I would never want to take that part of his history away.

Keaton didn’t elaborate, but he didn’t have to. The original Holly Creek Hops logo—a rough, hand-sketched crooked pint glass—appeared charming in a nostalgic made-by-a-child way, as you would put a child’s drawing on a fridge. But completely unmarketable to anyone outside our small town demographic.

“My niece was four,” he added, voice low. “We doodled it on a napkin at a family dinner.”

I swallowed. Hard. “Well… that’s incredibly sweet,” I said, genuinely. “And I understand the sentimental value. But Keaton, you’re aiming for bigger things now. That means big-box shelves and maybe millions drinking your beer one day soon. This—” I motioned to the screen, “—isn’t about losing that history. It’s about evolving to your better self.”

He remained stoic. I wasn’t about to give up. “Tell you what. We can frame the original, and hang it in the taproom. Maybe we even do a throwback label of a beer named for Paris on your ten-year anniversary of opening. Or when she turns twenty-one?”

He shrugged a shoulder to his ear. I hadn’t expected him to care so much about the old sketch. But then again, this wasn’t just about beer for him. It was about family. And if I wasn’t already infatuated with the former reality TV star, I was now.

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