Page 19 of Fall is Brewing

My heart thumps, equal parts outrage and exhilaration. “No sabotage.”

“Obviously.”

“No backing out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We stare at each other, the space between us charged and crackling, like we’ve just stepped onto something neither of us fully understands yet.

“Deal,” I say.

“Deal,” he echoes.

Marcy beams like she’s been handed a Christmas gift. “I’ll announce it first thing tomorrow!”

As if she needs to. The whole town will know before I get into my pajamas tonight.

The bowling alley explodes.

Cheers. Whistles. Someone yells, “Put me down for ten bucks on Hartley!” Another shouts back, “Calder’s got this!” Grandpa lets out a low hum of amusement. Patty’s smile is slow and knowing. Dad looks like he might faint.

Brooks extends his hand.

I hesitate for half a second—then take it.

His grip is warm. Steady. Unyielding. Heat radiates up my arm, tingling down my spine.

“May the best palate win,” he says.

I smile sweetly. “I plan on it.”

The noise swells around us—cheers, laughter, Marcy already announcing something far too loudly—but Brooks doesn’t let go of my hand right away.

Instead, he tugs gently. Just enough that I stumble a half-step closer before I can stop myself.

My breath catches. “What—” I start.

He leans in, close enough that I can smell apples and something warm and familiar beneath it. His mouth brushes the shell of my ear as he lowers his voice, private despite the crowd.

“You keep dropping your shoulder,” he murmurs. “That’s why the ball’s pulling left.”

My pulse trips.

“I—” I swallow. “I didn’t ask for bowling advice.”

His hand slides to my hip—not possessive, just steady—and he adjusts me an inch to the right, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I know,” he says softly. “But you’re muscling it. Let the ball do the work. Relax your wrist. Look at and aim using the arrows, not the pins.”

His breath is warm. Too warm. For a split second, the bowling alley disappears—no pins, no crowd, no bet. Just him, close enough that I could lean forward and make a very bad decision.

“You’re enjoying this,” I whisper.

A smile curves against my ear. “Maybe.”

Then he straightens, releasing me like he hasn’t just undone my concentration and my dignity in the span of three seconds.

“Try it,” he says, already stepping back. “Trust me.”