Page 41 of Fall is Brewing

Jace grins. “There he goes.”

Evan’s voice follows me, low and dry. “Try not to make it worse.”

Yeah, no promises.

I don’t make a show of it.

I don’t cut across the room like I’ve got something to prove. I just set my beer down, step around Chief—who watches me go with sleepy disapproval from where he’s sprawled by the fire—and head toward the host stand where Willa and her family are waiting to be seated.

Willa notices me halfway there and I know the exact second it happens.

Her body goes still before her face does. Her hand gripping where it rests against the strap of her bag. Her chin lifts a fraction. The air between us tightens like a rope being pulled from both ends.

“Brooks,” Willa says when I stop a few feet from them. My name sounds careful in her mouth. Like she’s wrapping it in restraint so it doesn’t come out as something sharper.

“Hi, Willa.” There’s a beat where we just look at each other. The noise of the bar hums around us—glasses clinking, laughter from the firepit drifting in through the open doors, someone feeding cash into the old jukebox in the corner. Warm light catches in the loose strands of her hair. She’s wearing a cream sweater tonight, soft-looking in a way that doesn’t match the set of her jaw at all.

That mismatch does something to me I don’t care to examine too closely.

Her dad clears his throat. Not subtle.

Willa glances toward him, then back at me. “Can I help you with something?”

Polite. And reserved enough to make the point.

I tilt my head toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms and the quieter back corridor where the old turnouts used to hang. “Can I steal you for a second?”

Her brows lift. “That depends. Are you planning to be insufferable?”

“Not on purpose.”

Her mouth almost twitches.

Almost.

Then she sighs through her nose and says to her family, “I’ll be right back.”

Her father looks like he’d like to object. Patty lays a hand on his arm before he can.

Willa brushes past me first and I follow her down the short side hall where the noise of the main room fades just enough to let silence breathe between us.

There’s an old framed photo on the wall of the building when it was still an active firehouse, doors open, truck gleaming, men in suspenders and soot-streaked shirts staring out at the camera. And Dawn… the woman who served us our beers stands in the middle of the group smiling, Chief the dalmatian seated obediently at her feet. Everything is quieter back here, too. Brick dust, old wood, smoke worked deep into the building’s bones.

Willa turns to face me beneath a sconce throwing honey-colored light over the wall. “Well? Are you here celebrating your victory?” She gestures toward the front room where my brothers are pretending they’re not stealing glances back here.

“Not as much as I thought I would,” I say.

She doesn’t like that answer. I can tell by the way her eyes narrow. Not in anger exactly, but in suspicion. Like she thinks I’m playing at humility for sport.

“That’s a strange thing to say to the person who lost.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” She folds her arms across her chest. “Because from where I’m standing, you looked pretty comfortable winning that title yesterday.”

I step a little closer. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough that my voice doesn’t have to travel. “You had it right.”

The words land between us and everything stills. For a second, even the muffled laughter from the other room disappears as Willa blinks.