Page 112 of Fall is Brewing

A laugh breaks through my tears. “That's your business model?”

“It's a strong one.”

“It is,” I admit.

He taps the page lightly. “Calder coffee. Hartley donuts. Shared events. Apple blossom weekends. Harvest markets. Maybe Christmas trees someday if Jace gets his way.”

“Jace wants Christmas trees?”

He rolls his eyes. “Jace wants everything.”

“Fair.” I tilt my head. “Why is there a burrito sketched in the corner?”

Brooks rolls his eyes. “Also Jace.”

I laugh and nod. “Ah, of course.”

“And over here,” he glides his finger over a little to a separate section. “We could build a pavilion. A place for events that is near the coffee shop so that caterers can use the café kitchen if needed for food prep.”

I stare down at the sketch, and my heart begins to beat in a way that feels almost painfully hopeful.

People keep asking us to pick a side.

Hartley or Calder.

Past or future.

Tradition or change.

But maybe Orchard Falls has been asking the wrong question. Maybe the future isn't on his side of the road. Or mine. Maybe it's right here.

In the middle.

I look up at him. “You've been designing my dream.”

Brooks shakes his head, stepping close enough that the paper brushes between us. “No,” he says softly. “I’ve been designing our future.”

The words undo me. I rise onto my toes and kiss him.

Not hidden behind a booth this time. Not stolen in a barrel room. Not shadowed by secrets.

Just us, standing in the center of the town I love, both our ribbons catching the late afternoon breeze, choosing something neither of us could have built alone.

A rustle comes from the grass near the stone wall. Brooks sighs against my mouth.

“If that's Jace, I'm committing a felony.”

I laugh and turn. It is not Jace.

Scrumpy emerges from beneath a cluster of maple trees, her masked face lifted with all the dignity of a queen entering court. Behind her, three baby raccoons tumble over one another, all paws and tails and chaotic purpose.

One makes a direct line for the cider donut display at my booth.

“Hey!”

The baby raccoon snatches the top donut with shocking efficiency and waddles backward like a tiny bandit.

Brooks shakes his head. “Brave little buggers.”