Page 30 of Fall is Brewing

I nod once. “Unanimous.”

The room erupts.

Mabel covers her mouth with both hands, eyes shining as her daughter—granddaughter, maybe—throws her arms around her. Willa stands, offering her hand across the table. “Congratulations.” Her voice is steady, warm. Real.

I stand too. “Well earned,” I add.

Mabel looks between us, blinking rapidly. “Thank you. It’s just the recipe I’ve always made, but I’ve been working on my technique based on the notes you gave me last year,” she says to Willa.

My gaze catches on Willa’s clipboard, the one with the notes from past entrants.

“That’s why it works,” Willa says. “Your flavors were always great. You just needed to refine it.”

I glance at Willa and note the honesty flashing in her eyes and her sweet, genuine smile.

As the crowd surges forward to congratulate the winner, there’s a brief pocket of quiet around our table.

Willa exhales slowly. “That was the right call,” she says.

“It was,” I agree.

For a moment, there’s no edge. No competition. Just two people who understand the weight of getting something right.

Her shoulder brushes mine as she shifts and neither of us moves away. This is the first time since the bowling alley that it doesn’t feel like we’re pulling in opposite directions.

And that hits harder…more than the bet or the blindfold or the town’s expectations—we’re not competing. We’re refining.

It might be the most dangerous thing of all.

“Congratulations, Mabel!” Marcy shouts! “Just so you know, you’ve got your work cut out for you! We have twelve people entered in the pie eating contest, so you best get baking.”

The room explodes into applause. I scan the crowd out of habit as everyone continues to cheer for Mabel. Willa’s family stands near the back—her grandfather beaming, her dad clapping hard enough to be heard over everyone else, Patty lifting her glass toward her like she’s toasting something bigger than pie.

They’re here for her. All of them, her entire family. I glance toward the door.

No Evan.

No Jace.

Of course.

A familiar irritation coils low in my chest. Figures. Just fucking figures. Once again, it’s up to me to keep this ship from sinking. If we win, it’s we. If we lose, it’s me.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as a dull ache starts to bloom behind my eyes. Get it together, Brooks. And fast.

Because Marcy’s voice rings out again, louder this time. “And now,” she announces, practically vibrating, “onto the big event of the day!”

The crowd shifts. Energy spikes. A long folding table is wheeled forward, already lined with covered plates that I can only assume hold neatly sliced apples beneath.

Blindfolds sit folded beside each setting.

Two chairs, side by side. Not across from each other.

My pulse slows instead of quickening.

Willa turns toward the table at the same time I look toward her and our eyes meet.

Marcy beams at us. “Judges,” she calls sweetly, “if you’d take your seats once more.”