Page 46 of Fall is Brewing

Intentional.

The front door to his tasting room is propped open and I step inside. The space is bright, clean, and—annoyingly—beautiful. Sunlight pours through wide windows, catching on polished wood and steel. Everything has a place. Everything stays in its place. The tasting bar runs the length of the room, set with glasses that actually match, shelves behind it lined with bottles arranged like someone considered symmetry before they placed a single one.

It smells…I pause… it smells like apples, yes. But not in the warm, heavy way I’m used to. This is sharper, cleaner. Like everything has been distilled down to its most precise version of itself. It’s amazing how wildly different our two orchards can be even though we’re just down the road from each other. Same climate. Same varietals. Wildly different experiences.

“Planning to stand there all day?” His voice slides across the room before I see him.

I turn to find Brooks leaning against the far end of the bar like he’s been there long enough to watch me take everything in. The sleeves of his dark henley are pushed up to reveal muscled forearms and a hand that’s gripping a mug of coffee.

And he’s entirely too at ease.

“I was deciding whether or not to be impressed,” I say.

His mouth curves slightly. “And?”

I swallow down the urge to smile at him. “I’m still undecided.”

“Take your time,” he replies easily. “You’ll be here a while.”

I narrow my eyes at him, more than a little annoyed. Because now that I’m standing here, I can feel it. This place isn’t a gimmick. It isn’t luck. It isn’t hype. Sure, it’s different from Hartley & Sons, but it has heart and a lot of hard work placed into every beam.

Careful, controlled, deliberate work.

He pushes off the bar and walks toward me, smiling as he stops just a couple steps in front of me. A little too close.

Close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath, something warm and dark that doesn’t quite match the crispness of the room.

“You’re early, Hartley,” he says.

“Get used to it, Calder. I’m never late.”

“Noted.”

My eyes flick to the coffee in his hand. Despite the fact that I’d finished my own mug minutes before heading over, I say, “What’s a girl gotta do to get one of those for herself?”

With a smirk, he hands me the steaming mug. “You’re in luck. This one’s for you.”

I blink, surprised, as the warmth of the mug settles into my hands. “You just… had a spare coffee waiting?” I ask, lifting it slightly, suspicion threading through my voice.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I had a hunch you’d show up early.”

“And you always plan ahead for your competition’s caffeine needs?”

“I always plan ahead… period,” he says simply.

I take a careful sip, letting the heat and flavor settle over my tongue. It’s good… But of course it is. The flavor blooms slowly, warm and layered in a way that has no business being this good at seven in the morning. Cinnamon first—soft, not aggressive—followed by something deeper. Toasted sugar.

Apple.

Not artificial, not syrupy, but baked. Like the inside of a pie just as it comes out of the oven, the edges caramelized, the sweetness settling into something rich and familiar.

My brows knit before I can stop them, and I take another sip, slower this time, like I’m trying to catch it in the act.

“You put cider in your coffee?” I ask, glancing up at him.

One corner of his mouth lifts. “No.”

“Then what is that?”