Page 18 of Fall is Brewing

I let out a short laugh. “We’re already competing. That’s literally what the Orchard Falls Cider Competition is.”

“Not like this,” he replies. “Not without excuses. No panels. No politics.”

A few people nearby pretend very badly that they’re not listening.

“What are you suggesting?” I ask.

He tilts his head, studying me the way he did last night at the restaurant, like he’s weighing something more than words. “Just how well do you think you know your apple varietals?”

I snort. “Better than I know my own body.”

Brooks’ eyes flash and take a slow, sweeping glance at me from head to toe. My cheeks grow hot. Dear God, why did I mention my body to this man?

His smirk tips higher. “That’s quite sad, Willa.”

I roll my eyes and fold my arms. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

Oh, jeez. Am I sweating? I think I’m sweating. “I can tell any type of apple from one single bite.”

“You trust your palate that much?”

My spine straightens. “More than I trust yours.”

Silence.

Even the lanes seem to quiet, pins resetting with a mechanical hum instead of their usual clatter. Someone drops a ball behind us and no one laughs.

Brooks’s mouth curves. “Then let’s test it.”

“How?” I ask.

“Blind,” he says. “Apple varietals. No labels. No bias. Just taste.”

My pulse kicks. “Fine.”

James blinks. “Uh⁠—”

“Blindfolded,” Brooks continues, eyes locked on mine. “Sliced apples. We both have to identify the varietals.”

“And who sets it up?” I challenge.

A voice cuts in immediately. “I do.” Marcy appears like she’s been summoned by the promise of drama, clipboard already in hand, Autumn Festival jacket zipped to her chin. “We could do it right after the pie competition.”

Brooks doesn’t look away from me.

“And what do I get after I win?” I ask, pointedly.

This only makes his smile grow wider. It’s an annoying sexy smile. Slightly crooked like his nose and charming in the same way a movie star’s is.

His gaze flicks over me, thoughtful, then sharpens. “Loser works at the winner’s orchard.”

A ripple goes through the room.

“Say that again,” I say.

“Public-facing work,” he adds evenly. “Every day leading up to the Autumn Festival. Until the Autumn Cider Competition.”