Page 48 of Fall is Brewing

He gestures me onward, and suddenly I’m walking with him past a massive tool shed, past gleaming bins and stacks of new, color-coded ladders, clearly never used in anger before. Not yet, at least.

He watches my expression as we walk, checking for tells, but I’m sure to keep my game face neutral.

If someone set out to build an orchard that would annoy me, he just might have succeeded. Every tree is staked, each row aligned laser-tight; even the groundcover is a uniform mat of tidy grass.

A rustling sound cuts through the rows before I can come up with another insult about his disturbingly organized grass.

“No,” Brooks hisses and grabs a pitchfork leaning against the toolshed. “Ohhhhhh, no you don’t.”

“What the—” I start to say just as something furry shoots out from beneath one of the trees, fast and round and entirely too confident for an animal standing three feet from two humans.

I stop short. No way. No freaking way. I know that stupid face. I’d recognize that little trash bandit anywhere with the tip of his tail missing.

“Pippin?” I squeak.

The raccoon freezes too, clutching a half-eaten apple in both little paws like he’s been caught mid-bank heist.

His striped tail twitches once.

Then twice.

Brooks turns toward me, brows lifting. “Pippin?”

The raccoon chitters indignantly, as if personally offended by the name.

“He used to steal apples from our south orchard every fall. Grandpa caught him sleeping in an empty Pippin bin once.”

Brooks looks back at the raccoon, then at me. “Well, that explains why he’s got expensive taste. Here, we call him Scrumpy because I found him trying to break into my cider bottles I brought back from the UK.”

I stare at the raccoon. The raccoon stares back while chewing.

Betrayal. Pure betrayal. “You defected, Pippin?” I ask him, sarcastically touching my hand to my heart, wounded. “After everything we’ve been through?”

Brooks folds his arms, watching me with entirely too much amusement. “I didn’t realize you two were so close.”

“It’s like running into an ex-boyfriend out and about,” I scoff. “That little criminal stole three cider donuts right out of a tourist’s stroller last October.”

“That’s actually impressive.”

“He also knocked over an entire bushel of Pink Ladies because he got stuck inside trying to nap.”

Pippin—Scrumpy—makes a sharp little chirping sound like he’s defending himself in court.

“How long has he been here?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Almost a year now.” Brooks glances up at me. “Started hanging around after we opened. Guess he likes the apples.”

Something ugly and irrational whispers in the back of my brain. Pippin prefers Brooks’ apples over mine.

Which is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He’s a raccoon for goodness sake. A thieving little orchard goblin with sticky paws and absolutely no loyalty.

Still, something in my chest pinches unexpectedly watching the little traitor cross closer to Brooks.

“Wow,” I murmur. “Even the wildlife is turning against Hartley & Sons.”

Brooks’s grin deepens. “Maybe he just appreciates innovation.”

“Oh my God, you are unbearable, you know that?”