Page 109 of Fall is Brewing

"...is convince her.”

I huff out a laugh. "I don't think blueprints are going to help me there."

"No," Evan says with a knowing smile. "Probably not." He claps a hand against my shoulder. "But go get her anyway."

A bell rings through the square. Marcy's voice rises above the crowd. "Attention, everyone! Cider judging begins in fifteen minutes!"

The conversations around us shift instantly. Competitors straighten. Volunteers begin collecting bottles. Judges gather beneath the pavilion.

The festival somehow grows quieter despite the crowd. I reach for our competition bottle. Across the street, Willa does the same.

I used to think the hardest part of today would be waiting to hear whether our cider was good enough. Now I know better.

Because for the first time since opening Calder Cider...

I’m not afraid of losing the competition.

I’m afraid of losing the woman I want to celebrate with.

CHAPTER 23

Willa

By the time Marcy steps up to the microphone with the first envelope, my heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my teeth.

The whole square has gone strangely quiet.

Not silent. Orchard Falls is never silent. Somewhere near the gazebo, a toddler is crying because someone dropped his caramel apple. A dog in a plaid bandana barks at a hay bale like it owes him money. Jace Calder is still loudly insisting that he did not technically lose the pie-eating contest because he “chose dignity over speed,” even though there is an alarming amount of pumpkin pie filling in his hair.

But beneath all that, the town holds its breath.

So do I.

Brooks stands across the stage from me, shoulders straight, hands tucked into his pockets, jaw tight with the kind of restraint I now understand is less confidence and more armor.

He hasn't looked at me in ten minutes.

Or maybe he has. Maybe I've been too afraid to look back.

Marcy clears her throat, the microphone squealing just enough to make everyone wince. “For Best Cider, as selected by our panel of four judges…”

The envelope tears open.

My fingers curl around Grandpa's sleeve.

Marcy looks up, beaming. “Calder Cider!”

For one suspended second, I feel the old Willa rise in me. The one who knows exactly how to smile through disappointment. The one who would have felt the loss first and the truth second.

But then I look at Brooks. At the way his face changes, not into smugness, not triumph exactly, but into something stunned and almost boyish. Like some part of him has been waiting years for someone to tell him the dream he built was real.

His gaze swings to mine, panicked, eyes watering, lines creasing around his face. He’s worried for me. So worried, he’s not even celebrating his own win.

Tears fill my eyes and before anyone else moves, I start clapping.

Hard. Loud. Genuine.

Brooks's eyes go wide and this time, I don't look away from him, instead, I put my fingers in my mouth and whistle in celebration.