Page 5 of Fall is Brewing

She grins. “Everyone knows your usual.”

June leans in conspiratorially. “What’s her usual?”

“Chicken pot pie,” Kris says immediately. “And she looks at the menu every time, pretends she’s deciding, but her order never changes.”

Betrayed. In my own town.

“I like consistency,” I say, deadpan.

“And gravy,” Lena says.

“And carbs,” June adds.

“And control,” Lena finishes.

I glare at them. “Hello… I’m still here. Besides,” I ball up a bit of my cocktail napkin and lob it at June. “You’re one to talk.”

June smacks the cocktail napkin away, laughing. “Did you hear me denying anything?”

We order—pot pie for me, salad for Lena because she has self-control, pulled pork mac and cheese for June because she has taste. The night was almost starting to feel normal. Our drinks arrive, and for a few blissful minutes, I manage to relax. To exist as just Willa—not Willa Hartley, Future of the Orchard, Walking Fall Legacy.

I sip my drink, listen to June rant about a woman who tried to return a book with a broken spine and mysteriously stained pages because it “didn’t have enough spice.”

Then the door opens.

I don’t look right away. I only notice because the noise level shifts—like the room collectively inhales, then holds its breath.

Lena’s eyes flick past me, her smile turning sharp. “Oh.”

That’s never a good sign.

I turn in my seat.

Three men step inside, shaking off the cold. They’re all tall, all broad-shouldered, all dressed in that effortless way men who work with their hands seem to master without trying. Jeans. Boots. Jackets. The kind of casual that still looks like a threat.

And the one in the middle—Brooks Calder.

My stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

He hasn’t changed much since the last time I saw him. Still has dark hair that refuses to behave, still moves like he’s completely at ease in his own skin. Still has broad shoulders that make the doorway feel smaller. He’s wearing a henley under a jacket, sleeves pushed up just enough to show strong forearms that absolutely don’t belong to someone who sits behind a desk.

His gaze sweeps the room, assessing, curious—until it lands on me.

And locks.

Something flickers across his face. Recognition.

And then, like a slow burn he’s enjoying, his mouth tips into a smile.

“Willa… you’re staring,” June murmurs, leaning in.

“No I’m not.”

“You kind of are,” Lena adds.

“Well… then, I’m staring because he’s trouble,” I whisper back.

Brooks starts toward our booth because of course he does.