Page 92 of Fall is Brewing

I pause and slowly look into his eyes. “I think he’s most worried that you’ve stolen me.”

Brooks’ expression shifts, the teasing fades. "Willa..." The way he says my name—quiet, careful—pulls the air right out of my lungs. “That might be the only thing your grandfather is actually correct about.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The weight of everything unsaid settles between us, heavier than the silence we've been dancing around all morning.

"If this is a terrible idea," I say softly, "I'd rather find that out because we’re honest with each other."

His free hand comes up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that makes my breath catch. "I don't think honesty is ever the terrible part." His fingertips linger against my cheek.

Outside, somewhere beyond the thick stone walls, I can hear the distant rumble of a tractor. Life goes on. Apples wait to be pressed. Tomorrow we'll stand on opposite sides of the biggest competition of the year.

But in here...

There is only Brooks.

Only the warmth of his hand around mine.

Only the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious instead of impossible.

"I've wanted to kiss you again since the second I stopped, how’s that for honesty?” he says.

Instead of answering, I rise onto my toes and close the last inch between us myself. This kiss is slower. Deeper. With no surprises, no interruptions.

Just two stubborn orchard owners finally surrendering to the truth they've both been trying to outwork.

His lips part against mine and a slow, rich heat unfurls down to my bones. The steadiness I expected from him is gone, replaced by something breathless and immediate, as if he’s as surprised as I am that neither of us is pulling away. I wind my arms around his neck, and he lifts me lightly so that my toes barely skim the cool floor. When my hands tangle in his hair, he shivers—actually shivers, like he’s not the one ten inches taller and twice as steady.

His kiss slides along my jaw, to the hollow just below my ear. I don’t mean to say his name but I do, and it comes out so quiet it feels like a secret. His hand is on my back, tracing a slow arc from just above my waistband up to my shoulder blades, and the weight of it dissolves any doubts that have clung to me since sunset last night.

He leans me gently against a barrel, one palm braced just above my head, the other sliding beneath the hem of my sweater. My pulse flutters wild at my throat and I catch his eye—dark, intent, a look so dangerously soft I want to crawl inside it and stay there forever.

I tug him in closer and he lets himself be pulled, hips pressed to mine, neither of us pretending at decorum anymore.

It’s been an ungodly amount of time since I’ve been with anyone and I though I don’t want to admit that, I also know I can tell Brooks just about anything safely.

His flannel is soft and dry beneath my palms. So is the cotton tee beneath it, though not for long. I can feel the outlines of muscle, the edge of a scar near his ribs, the abrupt stutter of his breath when I touch anything unexpected.

His hands are at my waist, fingers hot against my skin even with the barrier of fabric. This is maybe three steps away from a professional crime, but I don’t care. His nose nudges along my jaw, his mouth finds that place beneath my ear again, and my knees threaten to liquefy.

I return the favor, dragging my mouth along the edge of his pulse, breathing in the mix of apples and soap and man, a scent so rooted in this place that it could rewrite every rivalry in the world. When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. My back is pressed to the barrel; his palm is flat against the wood, caging me in, but his expression is less wolf than something wounded. As if he’s waiting for me to regret it, waiting for me to undo the spell and say it was a mistake.

He waits anyway, giving me the exit he thinks I want. But I don’t. So I take a hand and draw it to my collarbone and then, slower, lower, until his knuckles brush the skin just beneath the hem of my sweater. The air stirs, ripe with possibility.

“In or out, Calder?” My voice is rough ina way that even I don’t recognize.

He blinks, startled, a half laugh stuck in his throat. “All in, Willa.” And then he’s kissing me again, this time with an edge that’s all hunger and no apology.

He makes short work of my layers, hands careful but hurried, testing each button for its resolve. My pulse hammers in my temples as the air finds my skin, and suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything: the stickiness at the base of my spine, the way my heart is thumping at my wrists, the whisper of my own breathing as he peels away the last practical layer and I’m standing in nothing but my bra and panties.

There’s a stubborn patch of old sunburn on my shoulder, and I almost cover it up, but then he puts his lips there, soft and reverent, like he’s saying grace.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, and I believe him, just for that moment.

He takes a step back, as if to memorize me—the orchard girl, half-undone in the cold sanctum of the barrel room. I almost laugh, but then his hands are on me again, splaying over my ribs. He falls to his knees, kneeling, like he’s at an altar and I’m his shrine.

The sliver of silk straps at my hips is no match for his resolve, or for mine. He hooks his thumbs into my panties and I help him, lifting myself up as he slides them down my legs, leaving nothing but the shock of breath against my heated core.

A silent question hangs in the chilly air that climbs my thighs in a shocking sweep, frosting me with goosebumps. He looks up at me, one brow lifting and I merely answer with a tilt of my chin; just the tiniest nod, but it feels like an earthquake.