Page 20 of Fall is Brewing

I glare at him, heart hammering, skin still buzzing where his hand was. “Trust you? Never,” I say.

His eyes flick down to my mouth, just for a beat. “We’ll see about that,” he replies.

CHAPTER 5

Willa

If Brooks Calder thinks he can stroll into Orchard Falls and out-identify me on apples blindfolded, he’s out of his mind.

The kitchen table at the house looks like a produce aisle exploded.

Apple slices are laid out in neat rows on white plates. Sticky notes label each one in my handwriting—Honeycrisp. Braeburn. Cortland. McIntosh. Granny Smith. Fuji. A bowl of lemon water sits off to the side to keep oxidation from ruining my study session, because apparently I’ve decided to treat this like I’m cramming for finals instead of participating in a small-town spectacle that will almost certainly involve Marcy with a microphone.

I tie a dish towel around my eyes.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “You’ve got this.”

The overhead light hums faintly. The fridge kicks on. Somewhere outside, a truck rumbles past on the road, and the scent of crushed apples from the day’s pressing lingers in the air.

This is familiar territory.

This is mine.

I reach forward, fingertips brushing ceramic until I find the first slice. The flesh is cool and slightly tacky against my skin. I bring it to my mouth and take a bite, focusing on texture first.

Crisp snap. High sugar. Bright acidity that lingers just a beat too long.

“Fuji,” I say confidently, pulling the towel off and checking the sticky note.

Fuji, indeed. I exhale sharply.

“Are you fighting with fruit?” Patty’s voice floats in from the doorway.

I don’t look up. “I’m studying.”

She steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter with an amused smile. “You’re blindfolded.”

“Yes.”

“For the apple thing?”

“Yes.”

She crosses her arms. “You know this is supposed to be fun, right?”

“It stopped being fun when half the town started placing bets,” I say, reaching for another slice. “And when Brooks Calder decided to turn it into a performance.”

Patty hums thoughtfully. “Or when you did.”

I pause, apple halfway to my mouth. “Maybe it was a mutual escalation,” I argue.

“Mmm.” She pushes off the counter and wanders closer, surveying the battlefield of fruit. “This looks less like escalation and more like preparation for war.”

“It is war.”

“You’re blindfolded in your own kitchen whispering varietals like incantations.”

I tie the dishtowel back around my eyes and bite into the next slice, concentrating. Softer flesh. Slight mealiness. Tart but not sharp.