Page 56 of Fall is Brewing

I mean, look, our cider is just as good as this. Some may even be better. But the fact that one of his recipes is this good only one year after opening? That’s unnerving as hell.

“Well?” he asks.

I set the glass down carefully. “It’s good.”

His brows lift. “Good.”

“Perfectly acceptable.”

“Such glowing praise,” he snorts.

“I’m not here to flatter you.”

“No,” he says, leaning one forearm on the bar, his eyes warm with amusement. “You’re here because you lost.”

The words should sting. Maybe they do, a little. But far less than yesterday.

I lift my chin. “Temporarily.”

His gaze flicks to my mouth for half a second, quick enough that I almost convince myself I imagined it. “Then you’d better learn fast.”

A couple approaches the bar before I can answer, both of them bundled in matching navy vests, looking delighted by the sheer concept of being alive in September. The woman’s eyes go straight to the flight paddle.

“Oh, this is so cute,” she says. “We’ve been trying ciders all weekend. Is this your place?”

Brooks shifts instantly—not fake, not salesman-slick, but warmer and more open. “It is. I’m Brooks Calder. I own the orchard with my brothers.”

I watch him shake their hands, ask where they’re visiting from, listen like the answer matters. He doesn’t rush them, doesn’t drown them in facts. “What do you two usually drink? Beer or wine?” he asks, then keeps pressing them. Dry or sweet? Adventurous or safe?

The husband smiles with a glance at his wife. “She’s adventurous. I’m safe.”

Brooks nods solemnly. “A common marital divide.”

The wife laughs, and just like that, they’re his.

I hate how good he is at this.

No. That’s not true.

I hate that I like watching him be good at it.

He glances toward me. “Willa’s going to walk you through this one.”

My spine straightens. “I am?”

He nods. “You are.”

The couple turns to me, smiling expectantly.

For one petty second, I consider giving them the most technical, joyless rundown possible. Brix levels. Tannin. Fermentation temperature. The kind of explanation that would make Brooks regret handing me the reins.

But then the woman lifts the glass and looks at me with honest excitement, and I can’t do it.

I’m many things. A saboteur is not one of them.

I pick up the bottle and glance at the label. Ember Gold. The cider in the glass is deeper than the others, honeyed amber with a faint haze.

“This one,” I say slowly, “is for people who think they want something sweet but don’t actually want to admit they like complexity.”