Page 10 of Fall is Brewing

“A conflict of interest?” I finish flatly.

“Yes.”

I exhale, already feeling the pressure crawl back over my skin. “I think that’s exactly what Marcy was going for. Any chance I can tell Marcy to kick rocks?”

June shakes her head. “You can’t. She runs the whole town now.”

Lena lifts her water glass. “To Willa Hartley.”

I blink. “What?”

“To surviving being publicly forced into a judging panel with a hot man who annoys you,” Lena says, too pleased. “May your eye rolls be dramatic and your palate be sharp.”

June raises her glass too. “And may the sexual tension be unbearable.”

I stare at them, then lift my own glass because what else can I do? “May my town stop meddling in my life,” I say.

They clink their glasses against mine anyway.

Across the restaurant, Brooks glances over his shoulder—like he can feel it—and catches my eye.

His smile is slow. Like he already knows this is going to be fun.

I tighten my grip on my glass and smile back, sweet as cider and twice as dangerous.

Fine. If Brooks Calder wants to step onto my turf, then he can learn exactly what happens when you challenge a Hartley in Orchard Falls.

Sixteen days until the Fall Cider Competition.

And apparently, ten days until I’m stuck judging pumpkin pie with the enemy.

Sixteen days to prove I can carry what my family built.

Sixteen days to prove I’m not the weak link in a four-generation chain.

Sixteen days to find out if Hartley & Sons is still a legacy—or just a memory.

CHAPTER 3

Brooks

Mornings in Orchard Falls are nothing short of magical. They roll in slowly and quietly.

No music. No chatter. Just cold air and the soft creak of wood as I push open the doors to Calder Cider before the sun has fully crested the mountains. The building smells like apples and oak and fresh ambition—sharp and clean, nothing softened by time yet.

I like it this way.

Before tourists. Before opinions. Before the town wakes up and remembers we’re new.

The barrels line the wall in neat rows, pale wood still unscarred, waiting to earn their stains and stories. I run my hand along one as I pass, the grain smooth beneath my palm. We chose every barrel ourselves. Argued over half of them. Lost sleep over all of them.

While it might have been bought with our inheritance, nothing here is inherited.

Everything here was decided.

Outside, the orchard stretches like highways in orderly rows, leaves just beginning to turn at the edges. The apples aren’t ready yet—not quite—but they’re close. Everything is close this time of year. Victory. Failure. Belonging.

I step out onto the gravel drive, breath fogging in front of me, and that’s when I see it.