Page 31 of Fall is Brewing

Backing out isn’t an option. Not for my brothers. Not for this town. And definitely not with Willa Hartley already walking toward that table like she was born for it.

If I lose, I work for her.

If I win, she works for me.

Either way—I’m about to let her see exactly how good I am.

And I have a feeling she’s about to show me something I’m not prepared for.

CHAPTER 7

Willa

I have never regretted opening my mouth faster than I do at this moment. Why the hell did I agree to this?

The crowd shifts like they’ve been waiting for this showdown all afternoon. Wasn’t this supposed to be friendly? A little light competition between cider houses. Now it feels like a duel.

I smooth my hands down the front of my sweater and glance at the second table Marcy must have set up while we were pie tasting. I walk toward the center of the room, hyperaware of every step. Brooks falls into stride beside me, unhurried and comfortable.

Of course he’s comfortable. That man never not looks comfortable and it’s grating as hell.

The folding table waits like an altar. Two chairs, side by side. Blindfolds sit on the tabletop, covered with a crisp white cloth. Harmless looking. Beside them, cloth napkins and for reasons I can’t explain, wooden clothespins in a small wicker basket.

The crowd presses in closer, a semicircle forming around the table. Someone is already holding up their phone. A few teenagers whisper and giggle like this is better than cable. Marcy stands at the front, vibrating with authority, clipboard hugged to her chest.

“All right, Orchard Falls!” she calls, her voice bouncing off the rafters. “Our judges have finished the pie contest, so we are moving on to the blind taste test!”

I glance toward my family automatically.

Grandpa stands tall, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, chin lifted like he’s watching a championship game. There’s pride there in his eyes. Dad is beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight. He tries to smile when I catch his eye, but I know him. He’s worried. Patty doesn’t look at the covered plates of apples, she looks at me. Not checking if I’m capable; checking if I’m okay.

I straighten my shoulders and force a smile in her direction.

Beside me, Brooks steps into place without hesitation.

He doesn’t roll his neck. Doesn’t shake out his hands. Doesn’t glance at the crowd. He pulls out his chair and sits like he’s about to review quarterly reports instead of gamble his dignity in front of half the town.

He’s way too calm.

I take my seat beside him, studying his profile. We’re close enough that our elbows nearly touch. Close enough that I can hear his breathing over the noise.

Marcy beams down at us. “Blindfolds on, please!”

The cloth is placed in my hands. For one irrational second, I consider laughing. Then I tie it behind my head.

Darkness falls, but the crowd noise around me sharpens.

Marcy’s voice cuts through like she’s announcing a championship round. “First slice!”

Something cool and smooth brushes against my fingertips. For a split second I just hold it there in my palm, grounding myself in its weight, dragging my fingers across the damp flesh of the apple slice and waxy skin. I don’t know what kind of data I could pull from this, exactly, but it grounds me into the moment.

The room is loud. Chairs scrape the wooden floors, people whisper, someone in the back of the room laughs way too hard. But beneath the blindfold, the world narrows to this one small crescent of fruit and the pulsing thrum of my heart as I try to pretend this is all so very normal.

This is fine. This is most definitely not the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever agreed to in public.

I bring the slice to my mouth.

The skin gives with a delicate snap, the flesh crisp and almost glassy between my teeth. Juice bursts forward, clean, bright, and balanced. Sweet without being syrupy. A familiar hum of acidity that lifts instead of lingers.