Page 76 of Fall is Brewing

She eyes it suspiciously. “This feels like a trap.”

“You just said you wanted coffee!”

She takes it anyway, lifting it to her lips like she’s bracing for impact. Then she pauses. Takes another sip. And another. Her shoulders drop just a fraction and she sighs, her eyes drifting closed as she savors the final swallow.

“I hate that this is so good,” she mutters.

I shouldn’t smile as much as I do. “You don’t hate it.”

“I absolutely do.”

She takes another sip. “Mm-hmm.”

I nod toward the truck parked outside the tasting room, already loaded with sample cases, invoices, and enough hope to make my stomach feel stupidly tight. “You’re with me today.”

Her brows lift. “On deliveries?”

“Some deliveries. But pitches, mostly.”

Her brows crease. “You trust me around your potential accounts?”

“No, but I need another set of hands,” I say, then pause because that’s true, but it isn’t the whole truth. “And because you should see more than just the tasting room and orchard.”

And because I want her to see how hard it is to be an outsider in a town as tightly knit as Orchard Falls.

Something flickers across her face, quick and unreadable. Then she tucks the clipboard against her chest. “Fine. But if this is your attempt to convert me, I should warn you, I’m very difficult to indoctrinate.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Orchard Falls is already showing off by the time we drive into town.

The storm scrubbed everything clean overnight, leaving the sidewalks damp and shining, the brick storefronts glowing deeper red beneath strands of maple leaves strung from lamppost to lamppost. Flower boxes overflow with mums in gold and burgundy. Pumpkins sit on every stoop like small orange sentries. A chalkboard outside the bookstore reads, Yes, we have cozy mysteries. No, you may not move in.

Willa catches me reading it and snorts. “June wrote that.”

“I think I met her the other night, right? One of your friends from The Mill House?”

“My two best friends. Lena is sweet and loyal. June is too, but also a professional menace.”

“Ah yes. A loved one who’s a professional menace… sounds familiar.”

She shoots me a look. “Do not compare June to Jace.”

“I would never insult June like that.”

A laugh escapes her and the truck cab feels warmer for it.

People wave as we drive down Main Street.

Not everyone, but enough.

Marcy, arranging scarecrows outside the community hall, lifts both hands like she’s directing traffic and gossip simultaneously. Old Mr. Voss from the grocery store gives me a nod. A kid in a pumpkin hat points at the Calder logo on the truck, and his mother smiles.

Willa notices, but I expect nothing less. She notices everything. “You’ve made progress,” she says.

“Some.”

“Don’t be modest. It took Max four years to get people to wave to him in town when he first moved here and opened his furniture restoration shop.”