Page 90 of Fall is Brewing

"Some people walk into your life to challenge you," she says softly. "Some walk into your life to teach you something." She glances at me then, her smile warm enough to make my throat tighten. "And every once in a while..." She reaches over again, squeezing my hand. "...someone walks into your life that you were never meant to compete with in the first place."

I swallow hard.

Because somehow... that possibility feels far more terrifying than the competition ever did.

“But we each own orchards. Down the street from each other. How could we ever build a life together when our dreams simultaneously overlap and are at odds with each other?”

She merely shrugs. “Life has a funny way of working these things out. Just take it one step at a time.”

I stare back out the windshield as Orchard Falls slips by in flashes of orange and gold, the storefronts growing fewer the closer we get to home.

One step at a time.

It sounds so simple.

But tomorrow I'll walk back into Brooks Calder's orchard, look him in the eyes after kissing him beneath a string of festival lights, and somehow pretend everything is normal.

For the first time all week...

I have absolutely no idea what my next step is.

The next morning, I make it exactly forty-three minutes before I can’t take it anymore.

Forty-three minutes of pretending yesterday didn’t happen.

Forty-three minutes of discussing inventory and festival signage and whether the maple bourbon reserve needed another case brought upstairs.

Forty-three minutes of Brooks Calder looking at me like I’m simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing he’s ever had to face.

It’s unbearable.

The tasting room isn’t open to the public yet. Jace took a truck into town to restock the community hall. Evan is running the Calder Cider booth today.

For the first time all morning...

It’s just us.

Brooks is in the barrel room, checking labels on the competition batches.

The space is cooler than the tasting room, the air rich with oak, apples, and the sweet, yeasty perfume of cider quietly coming into itself. Dust motes drift lazily through the shafts of sunlight spilling in from the high windows, turning the room into something almost sacred.

Rows of barrels stretch around us like old sentries.

The whole room hums with patience.

With time.

With things that can't be rushed.

Maybe that's why it feels so fitting.

Brooks doesn't notice me at first.

He's bent over a clipboard, pencil tucked behind one ear, brow furrowed in concentration.

I watch him longer than I should. The broad line of his shoulders beneath his flannel. The sleeves pushed to his forearms. The way he absently rubs his thumb along the edge of a barrel while he's thinking. It's astonishing how quickly someone can become familiar.

"You've been staring at me for at least thirty seconds."