Page 55 of Fall is Brewing

Earlier, it felt polished and clinical. Almost too perfect. But now there’s life in it—the scrape of stools against the floor, the low murmur of conversation, the musical clink of glasses being set down on wood. Sunlight catches in the amber cider flights lined up along the bar, turning them into little rows of liquid fire.

It smells like apples and oak and coffee and something yeasty from the back room, all of it braided together into a scent that is not at all like Hartley & Sons and therefore should not make me feel even remotely sentimental.

But it does. Which is annoying.

“Flight language,” Brooks says from beside me, setting four small tasting glasses on a wooden paddle. “That’s where we start.”

I glance at him. “Flight language?”

“The way we talk people through our cider.”

“I know how to talk people through cider.”

“I know you know how to talk people through your cider.”

My eyes narrow. “You’re splitting hairs.”

“Only the ones that matter.”

He doesn’t smile when he says it, which makes it worse. Because he’s not even teasing me. Or being flirty. No, he’s focused, sleeves pushed up again, dark hair falling slightly forward as he leans over the bar to adjust the glasses. The movement pulls the fabric of his henley tight across his shoulders, and I hate that my eyes notice before my brain can file a formal objection.

He picks up the first glass and holds it to the light. “We don’t start with tasting notes.”

I blink. “Everyone starts with tasting notes.”

“Well, here at Calder Cider, we start with mood.”

I stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Now he smiles, small and slow, like he knew that would get me. “You heard me. Mood.”

“That sounds like something a man with reclaimed wood shelves would say.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking to the back door.

“Oh my God,” I say, burying my laughter. “You do have reclaimed wood shelves, don’t you?” I snort and open my notes app to jot down the word: Mood.

His brows crease as he notices me taking notes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m collecting evidence.”

“Against me?”

“Always.” When he doesn’t answer, I look up to find him suspiciously narrowing his eyes. “I’m taking notes about your flights. What else would I be doing? Jeez. Paranoid much?”

Except… he has every right to be paranoid. I am taking notes on his orchard… meticulous notes. That I plan on using later.

This seems to appease him though and he slides the first tasting glass toward me. “This one is Hearthline. Semi-dry. A little tannic. Good structure. But if I tell a customer that first, half of them glaze over. If I say it’s the one you drink beside a fire after a long day when you’re pretending you don’t need a second sweater, they understand it immediately.”

I look down at the glass, irritated by how much I understand exactly what he means. “One might call that manipulative.”

“Well… I call it storytelling.”

I lift the glass and take a cautious sip.

The cider hits crisp first, then softens—dry enough to feel clean, warm enough to linger. There’s a faint bitterness at the edge that keeps it from being too easy, and I hate, absolutely hate, that my mind immediately supplies: old wool blanket, smoke in your hair, someone’s knee brushing yours under a porch table.

Damn him.