Page 115 of Fall is Brewing

"I was making you sweat."

His brow arches. "You've gotten remarkably comfortable doing that."

"It's one of my favorite hobbies." I lean across the center console just enough to kiss his cheek. "I love you, too."

He laughs again just as the familiar silhouette of Cartley Coffee comes into view.

Even after several months of being open, the sight of it steals a little of the air from my lungs.

The cedar siding has weathered into a warm honey color beneath the Orchard Fall’s sun, and the wide front porch glows beneath strings of café lights that crisscross overhead like tiny stars waiting for dusk. Beyond the shop, the festival lawn stretches between Hartley & Sons and Calder Cider, the pavilion standing proudly at its center. There was a time when this patch of land had been nothing more than a strip of grass separating two rival orchards.

Now it was where people hosted events. Weddings. Where they danced. Where they toasted anniversaries and celebrated babies and held Christmas markets beneath blankets of twinkling lights.

Sometimes I still catch myself walking through the doors just to remind myself that we actually built it.

That this impossible little dream between two orchards somehow exists because two stubborn people finally stopped trying to win against each other and started building together.

Except...

Tonight something feels wrong.

I frown, leaning forward in my seat. "The lights are on..."

Brooks follows my gaze, his smile fading almost imperceptibly. “Your dad must have left them on for us,” he says.

Closed like it is, the café looks less like the heart of Orchard Falls and more like an abandoned photograph.

Brooks cuts the engine and reaches for the keys. "I'm sure everything's fine," he says, though he sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as me.

I smooth an imaginary wrinkle from my dress before climbing out of the truck. My heels click softly across the gravel as we hurry toward the porch together, the cool spring air lifting the hem of my swing dress. Brooks fishes the shop keys from his pocket while I peek through the front window, pressing my hands against the glass.

He unlocks the door and holds it open for me.

The familiar scent of roasted coffee, cinnamon, and fresh wood wraps around me the second I step inside. Normally it feels like a hug.

Tonight it feels like a question. The café is cloaked in still, bright light. The pastry case is full. The chairs are tucked neatly beneath every table. Not a single coffee cup sits abandoned. Not a single crumb out of place. And yet, something feels… off.

"Hello?" I call, my voice carrying farther than it ever should inside these walls.

He closes the door behind us with a quiet click as I look up at the warm pendant lights overhead, bathing the café in soft amber light.

Everything looks...

Perfect.

The espresso machine gleams. Fresh flowers sit in their little mason jar beside the register. The coffee roaster stands exactly where Brooks left it yesterday, polished until it reflects the lights overhead.

I turn toward him, confusion knitting my brows together. "What exactly did Dad say⁠—"

The words die in my throat.

Brooks isn't standing beside me anymore.

He's several feet away, in the middle of the café, one knee resting on the worn pine floor we'd picked out together last spring. The same floor we'd argued over for nearly an hour because I wanted something warmer and he'd insisted the reclaimed boards would wear better over time.

Of course he was right.

He looks impossibly handsome in his tuxedo, two hands clutching a small velvet box that somehow manages to make my entire world tilt on its axis.