Page 59 of Fall is Brewing

“I’m learning that.” He says it lightly, but something in his tone makes my hands pause on the flight paddle.

When I glance over, he’s looking at me again, not like competition. Not like an inconvenience. Like I am something he’s trying to understand without taking apart.

A group of four women comes in next—scarves, lipstick, and cheerful opinions in full force—and I recognize them immediately. Marlene Bishop leads the charge, her silver hair swept into its usual immaculate twist, owner of the flower shop on Main and unofficial keeper of everyone’s business. Behind her is Dotty Alvarez, who runs the bakery two doors down from the flower shop and has been slipping me extra cinnamon rolls since I was twelve. Jeri Fleming, my late grandmother’s longtime bridge partner and wife of our congressman. She still wears the same bright coral lipstick she did at every summer picnic. And following behind her, Reagan Fleming, her eighteen year old granddaughter with her long, glossy blonde hair and sweet smile. They spot me at the bar and light up like they’ve just found the most interesting piece of gossip in town.

“Willa Hartley!” Marlene says, delighted. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Community outreach,” I say brightly.

Brooks coughs.

I kick his boot lightly behind the bar without looking at him.

The women absolutely notice and Reagan gives a nervous giggle which she quickly covers with her hand.

Their eyes sharpen with terrifying collective interest. “Oh,” Dotty says, her green eyes flashing with intrigue. Great.

“I was just kidding,” I say immediately. Brooks turns away, shoulders shaking. Then I add, “I lost a bet.”

“You did?” Carol asks as if she and the entire town didn’t already know this.

“I did.”

Carol’s eyes bounce between Brooks and me. “And now you work here?”

“Just for a couple of weeks.”

Brooks sets down a flight paddle in front of them. “Don’t worry, we’re making the most of it.”

The women beam as if we have just announced an engagement. “I bet you are,” Mrs. Bishop says.

I glance at him. “Some of us are.”

They ask for recommendations, and because I am not a monster, I give them honest ones. I steer one away from the semi-dry and toward something softer. Suggest the Hearthline for Marlene who says she doesn’t like “dessert cider.” I pour Reagan a half-pint of Calder’s non-alcoholic cider. I even talk Dotty into the coffee because apparently I am now personally invested in Calder Cider’s profit margins, which is a deeply alarming development.

When they leave, they are carrying two bags of coffee, four bottles, and a look that says they will be reporting everything to everyone in town by lunchtime.

Brooks leans one hip against the counter. “Community outreach, huh?”

“I panicked.”

“You looked very composed.”

“I’m a pro at panicking professionally. Besides, I told them I was kidding.”

“I suppose you did.” There’s that tone again. Soft amusement. Careful attention.

By three p.m., my feet ache, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and I have accidentally sold more Calder products than I am emotionally prepared to admit. The tasting room quiets for a moment, leaving only the hum of refrigeration, the faint music playing through hidden speakers, and the low buzz of bees outside the open door where late-season flowers spill from planters.

I lean against the back counter and take a sip of the coffee Brooks refreshed for me without my asking.

“You’re really good at this,” he says.

I keep my eyes on the room. “I know.”

He laughs softly. “There she is.”

That pulls my gaze to him.