Page 14 of It Happened in Vegas

“Do you need to take that? If it’s more important than this, I can wait,” I insinuated sweetly, masking my irritation.

“It’s nothing.”

I took that as translation for: It’s something.

We pushed through another few slides, talking about promotional tie-ins with the Holly Creek Christmas in July events, where Hops would sponsor. This town treated Christmas in July like the Olympics. Tourists, music festivals, pop-up shops, fake snow—it was about to get crazy, and I wanted Holly Creek Hops plastered on every cup and selfie backdrop in a fifty-mile radius.

Keaton’s phone buzzed again, and he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “For fuck’s sake.”

That was it.

“Take the damn call,” I snapped, slamming my clicker down. “We’ll wait.”

Richard coughed into his hand, either to hide a laugh or to emphasize my irritation.

Keaton stood, giving me a dark look that did things to my spine it really shouldn’t have, and stalked into the hallway.

I folded my arms and tapped my foot, seething.

“He’s a little wound up,” Richard said mildly.

“Think so?”

Richard chuckled and excused himself, saying something about checking with his team about another meeting. Which left me alone to stew—and to overhear.

The conference room door was slightly ajar. And Keaton wasn’t exactly whispering.

“No,” he growled. “I’m not flying to Vegas in August. It’s a hundred and ten degrees there in the shade. I don’t want to be paraded around for some reality TV reunion bullshit.”

Vegas? Reality TV?

I tilted my head, straining to hear more.

“No, I’m not bringing a plus one,” he snapped. “Because I’m not going!”

Pause. More grumbling.

“No,” he said again, agonizingly slower this time, like he was arguing with a toddler. “I’m not showing up just so Starla can stir up drama and get more podcast listeners.”

Ah. There it was.

I sat back, connecting the dots. Brewed for Love. The reality show previews had already hit the airwaves. From what I could gather, there was to be a wedding for the winning couple, including a reunion event, which to my marketing ears meant cameras and potential exposure for Keaton and his business.

And here he was, about to blow it off?

I interrupted, opening the door. “Keaton, I need you. Can you tell whoever it is you’ll call them back?” I implored and figured this would not only give him an excuse to get off the line, but time for me to knock some sense into him.

He followed me back into the room and looked about ready to punch a wall.

“Problem?” I asked innocently.

He didn’t answer, just dropped into his chair and stared at the table like it had personally betrayed him.

“You should do Vegas,” I encouraged.

His eyes snapped to mine. That got his attention. “You were listening in?” He glared like I’d grown an extra head.

“Hard not to, with the door open, and you weren’t exactly quiet.” I leaned forward, both palms flat on the table, which was cool from the air conditioning. Softly, I said, “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

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