Page 64 of Fall is Brewing

Willa hears it too. Her lips twitch. “Is he always like that?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“Also yes.”

She steps toward the tree and reaches up, her fingers closing around one of the apples I’d just inspected. She twists it free with the kind of practiced motion that makes something in me tighten. No wasted movement. No hesitation. She knows this work in her bones, the way some people know songs from childhood.

She holds the apple up between us. “This one’s ready.”

“It is.”

“You should’ve picked it before the sun hit this side too hard.”

“Now you’re just showing off.” Her only response is a smirk. I take the apple from her, our fingers brushing.

The contact lasts less than a second, but it lingers. Her hand is warm from the afternoon, strong from work, a little rougher than expected and somehow more intimate because of it. Willa turns away quickly like the next tree has suddenly become fascinating.

We continue working our way down the row with crates and ladders, falling into a rhythm. She argues with me about my picking order. I tell her she’s wrong. She proves she isn’t. I pretend not to be impressed. She pretends not to enjoy proving me wrong. The whole thing should feel like a problem, and maybe it is, but it also feels extremely close to easy.

Too easy.

By the time we reach the higher branches, the afternoon has gone thick and bright, warm enough that Willa shrugs out of her flannel and ties it around her waist. She climbs the ladder before I can tell her I’ll take the upper fruit, one boot on the rung, one hand gripping the side rail as she reaches into the leaves.

“Careful,” I say.

She glances down, brows lifted. “Did you just tell an orchard owner to be careful on a ladder?”

“I told a stubborn woman to be careful on my ladder at my orchard where I pay the insurance premiums.”

She snorts and reaches higher.

The branch above her sways under the weight of late fruit, leaves scattering light across her face in flickers of gold and green. For a second I forget to breathe. She looks like she belongs to the orchard, all determination and sunlight and sharp edges, beautiful in a way that feels less like something to admire and more like something to survive.

Then her boot slips, the ladder wobbling beneath her. There’s a startled gasp, a flash of wide eyes—and then she’s falling.

My body reacts before thought catches up and I catch her just as she’s going down. Not gracefully. Not planned. Just instinct and momentum as she tumbles backwards into me, arms flinging around my shoulders while mine wrap tight around her ribs and beneath her knees to keep her from hitting the ground. The impact knocks the breath out of both of us, her weight solid and real against my chest as I stagger back a step to steady us.

For a second, everything stops.

She’s in my arms, fully, completely, like something out of a movie neither of us would admit to watching. Her braid has come loose, strands of hair falling across her face, her breath warm against my neck. One of her hands is still gripping my shirt like she’s not entirely convinced I won’t drop her.

“I’m fine,” she says. Even though her voice is steady, her breath is not.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she nods, her eyes finding mine slowly as she lifts her head. “You can put me down.”

I don’t. Not right away, at least. Because she’s nose to nose with me, her green eyes brighter than they were a moment ago, lips parted like she’s either about to argue or say something that would ruin us both.

The orchard shifts around us—the hush of leaves, the thud of an apple dropping somewhere nearby, Jace’s distant victorious shout as the tractor finally turns over.

My thumbs press lightly against her rib before I catch myself.

Her gaze drops to my mouth, God help me.

I set her down and step back first because one of us has to remember there are rules, even if neither of us turns out to be very good at following them.