Page 49 of Fall is Brewing

“And yet,” he says, straightening slowly, “you’re still here. Bearing me.”

The breeze shifts through the orchard, carrying the scent of apples and leaves and earth still cold from the night before. Somewhere farther down the rows, wind chimes clink softly from one of the outer fence posts.

Scrumpy darts suddenly between Brooks’s boots and disappears into the trees again, apple in tow.

Brooks sighs. “We’ve been trying to capture that little menace for months and he always evades the traps.”

I shake my head. Been there. Grandpa and I tried for years to catch him, too. “Why go for the peanut butter treat in a trap when there’s a whole smorgasbord of apples to choose from?” I shake my head, trying not to smile.

Trying and failing, apparently, because Brooks catches it immediately. “There it is,” he says quietly.

I narrow my eyes. “There what is?”

“That look.”

“What look?”

He leans in, not so close that he’s touching me, but close enough that I can smell the smooth scent of his cologne. “The one where you stop trying so hard to hate this place.”

My stomach flips annoyingly hard. I open my mouth with every intention of denying it—and a loud crash echoes from somewhere near the bottling shed.

Brooks’s entire posture changes instantly. The warmth vanishes. “Dammit, Scrumpy!”

Brooks is already moving before the sound fully dies. “Stay here,” he says. Which, naturally, guarantees I follow him immediately.

He glances back once as I fall into step beside him, sunlight catching sharp along the line of his jaw.

“Do you ever listen?” he asks.

“Not when people are bossy for no reason.”

Something that feels dangerously close to a smile tugs at his mouth despite the urgency in his stride.

Then another crash sounds from the shed—followed by one of his brother’s yelling, “Get out of here, you mangy, little flea hotel!”

Brooks closes his eyes briefly like a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here.

And despite myself—I grin.

Because for the first time since I got here, Calder Cider doesn’t feel so polished.

But it does feel alive, exciting. Vibrant.

And somehow, that’s worse.

CHAPTER 11

Brooks

The crash reverberates through the bottling room, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass rolling across concrete.

Behind me, Willa winces. "That doesn't sound promising."

I grunt in agreement and shove open the bottling room door. The sight waiting for us somehow manages to be both better and worse than I'd imagined.

Empty cider bottles have scattered across the floor like oversized marbles, some still spinning lazily in widening circles. Some have shattered, some seem to have remained intact, but they're everywhere—under tables, against pallets, halfway across the room.

Jace stands in the middle of the disaster, frozen, one bottle clutched triumphantly against his chest. "...I caught this one." It’s silent as he glances around at the other sixty-something bottles. "Which, in hindsight," he says carefully, "may have been the wrong priority."