Page 62 of Fall is Brewing

“Willa.” The way he says my name stops me.

Not Hartley. Willa. Softer. Lower. Like the room has narrowed to the length of the bar between us.

“You don’t have to prove yourself every second you’re here,” he says.

My throat tightens unexpectedly. That lands too close. I glance away first, toward the shelves of Calder bottles catching the light. “I’m not trying to prove anything.”

“Okay.” Just that. Okay with no argument.

For the rest of my shift, I pour cider and sell coffee and pretend I don’t feel the place where his words settled under my ribs. I pretend I don’t notice when he refills my water. I pretend the brush of his hand against mine at the register doesn’t make heat flicker up my arm. I pretend I’m not collecting pieces of him the same way I’m collecting details about his orchard.

His patience with customers. His quiet corrections. His absolute inability to tolerate crooked labels. The way he never oversells. The way he watches the room like every person inside it matters, myself not only included, but maybe even especially.

By the time my obligated hours are over, the tasting room has emptied into that soft late afternoon lull where sunlight goes honey-thick and every surface looks warmer than it did in the morning.

I untie the Calder Cider apron I have been very intentionally not thinking about and fold it on the counter.

Brooks watches me from the far end of the bar. “Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

I should say something sharp. Something about contractual obligations or raccoon-related hazards or how his coffee is manipulative and his tasting notes are pretentious.

Instead, I glance around the room—at the polished bar, the shelves, the windows, the cider bottles lined in perfect rows. At the place I expected to resent and ended up understanding more than I wanted to.

Then I look back at him. “Same time tomorrow,” I say.

His smile is small, but I feel it everywhere.

I step outside into the cool afternoon air, and the scent of Calder Cider follows me—apples, cinnamon, oak, sunlight… him.

Halfway to my car, I realize I’m smiling.

Not because I learned some secret weakness in his operation.

Not even because Grandpa was right.

But because for one dangerous, impossible morning, I forgot I was supposed to hate being here.

And tomorrow, I get to go back.

Not have to…

Get to.

CHAPTER 13

Brooks

By Willa’s third morning at Calder Cider, I have learned that she is dangerous in every environment.

Put her in front of customers, and she sells coffee like she invented autumn.

Put her behind a tasting bar, and she makes them feel like choosing cider is less a purchase and more a personality revelation.

Put her in my orchard?

Apparently, she becomes a threat to my sanity and my insurance premiums.

She steps out of the tasting room after the lunch rush, untying the Calder Cider apron she’s been pretending not to care about wearing. Her hair is pulled back in a loose braid, but half of it has escaped around her face, catching the afternoon light in soft brown-gold strands. There’s a flush on her cheeks from hours of talking, moving, smiling. A real flush. Not the polished, hostess version of Willa Hartley. The working version.