Page 11 of It Happened in Vegas

By the time we finished checking inventory, the morning sun could cook an egg on my truck hood. Each July started as basically a slow burn into craziness in our hometown. The Fourth of July festival would kick things off, and then the town would tumble into its second biggest month of the year: Christmas in July.

Tourists from all over came to Holly Creek for the holiday decorations and music, parades and fake snow all down Main Street. The holiday movies played nonstop at the old theater, the indoor ice rink operated again, and ice sculpture contests, along with Christmas Tree Lane, happened in the school gym. Between Flora and Vivian, there were enough pies and confectionaries to enter a sugar coma until Labor Day. The locals all exuded real cheer, in part because of the tourists and their money rolling in, although some grumbled about the traffic.

I loved it, and typically brought out my limited edition brew, Hoppy Jolly Christmas, and thrived with the brisk business pace all month. The money from this each summer helped fund all the expenses I’d face through the fall and holidays, and getus through the winter when snow blanketed the town and the crowds reduced until spring.

But this year? Something made me antsy. My legs were restless. I blamed it on Richard’s drive to help me gain nationwide distribution. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the recent addition of a certain female taking over my office.

When I finally dropped into my desk chair, I glanced across the room at Sophie’s side. Her laptop wasn’t there. Her chair was empty. And dammit, it threw me off more than it should have today.

I reached for my phone and texted to find out if she was coming in, but stopped short of hitting send. I scoffed. That’d be something a worried boyfriend might do, not a colleague.

I wasn’t used to sharing my space. I’d built this brewery from scratch. Every brick, all the mortar, all the finishing touches—I picked them. Sweated for them. And now there was this woman with a sharp wit and tight skirts who strolled in, kicked her heels off, and made herself at home.

I liked the sight of her. That was the problem. I needed to refocus. Remember who I was. What this business meant to me, and what I wanted in life.

My brews selling nationwide—that was the plan. Sophie was only here to help me facilitate that. After, when the goal was achieved, we’d both go on our merry little ways.

I swallowed hard at that thought, when my phone buzzed.

“Starla?” I glared at her name on the text screen for a second, then sighed. I hadn’t talked to her in some time, intentionally.

Starla: Did you get the invite in the mail?

I frowned, and rummaged through the stack of envelopes Jessa left on my desk earlier. Junk, junk, invoice, flyer for a car wash fundraiser hosted by the Holly Creek High cheerleaders, and?—

Ah. This must be it. A heavy envelope with my name in fancy calligraphy that smelled like expensive perfume.

I opened and blinked a few times, shocked to find not only a complete weekend itinerary in Las Vegas, but a wedding invitation, sent by the producers of Brewed for Love.

You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of Vanessa & Ben.

“In Vegas in August?” I muttered. “Who the hell gets married in a literal oven in summer?”

An entire reunion weekend for the cast of the show was was laid out inside, all centered around this wedding. Welcome party poolside with cocktails, reunion filming with cast members, a beach party themed rehearsal dinner, and of course, the ceremony itself. Plus some post-wedding brunch bullshit I already wanted to skip.

Before I could finish reading, my phone buzzed again.

Starla: Check your email. Producer wants all couples there. Non-negotiable.

I opened my inbox. Sure enough, there it was. A little email from the Brewed for Love production team, reminding me of the contract everyone signed—the one that said they could drag me back into this circus up to three times per year after my season of Brewed for Love aired.

Surprise. This was one of them.

Starla: I assume I’ll be your plus one. We’ll make a splash. One more go-around for the fans.

I set my phone down and stared at Sophie’s empty chair.

I didn’t hate the show. Not really. It had given me a shot in the arm for my business. Introduced me to some great people, many of whom remained good friends. And at first, there was something exciting about it—cameras, confessionals, group challenges with kegs and blindfolds. The actor in me loved it.

But Starla?

She had been a game player from day one. Gorgeous, and we were attracted to one another at first and paired up. But Melanie, the head of production, loved her and all the drama she stirred. The longer we stayed on the show, the more it became obvious that Starla wasn’t there to fall in love.

She was there to win. At any cost.

I’d fooled myself at first, believing something different. Maybe I’d hoped we’d actually click and find something real among all the fakery around us on set.

But when the show ended, so did whatever illusion we’d managed to create.

---