Page 98 of Fall is Brewing

I close my eyes for half a second. "I never lied to you. I've spent twenty years learning to trust everything except smell. I know I had an advantage, but are you honestly telling me that you wouldn’t have used it in my shoes as well?”

She closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, the hurt is still there but it’s a little softer. "I believe you." Relief starts to loosen something in my chest… then she finishes. "But I still wish you had trusted me enough to tell me."

The relief disappears just as quickly. She carefully sets the scrapbook back on my dresser. "I need some time."

"Willa..."

"I know why you did it." She gives me a sad, tired smile. "I even think part of me understands." She reaches for her purse, holding it against her chest. "But understanding something..." Her fingers tighten around the leather strap. "...isn't the same as being okay with it."

Before I can find the words to stop her, she's already walking toward the door.

I don't follow.

Because for the first time since I met Willa Hartley...

I know chasing her would only make her leave faster.

CHAPTER 21

Willa

The cider barn has always been my favorite room on the property.

Not because it's the prettiest. That honor belongs to the orchard itself on an autumn afternoon when the trees glow like someone lit every leaf from within. And not because it's the busiest. During harvest, the press house wins that contest every time.

No.

I love this room because it's where patience turns into instinct.

The barrels line the walls in neat rows, each one holding months of work beneath its oak staves. The air is cool and damp, rich with the scent of apples, yeast, toasted wood, and the faint sweetness of fermentation. It smells like autumn decided to settle down and make a home.

Tonight, every workbench is crowded with tasting glasses.

Legal pads.

Pencils.

Pipettes.

Three finished ciders wait in stainless steel pitchers beside me, each one pulled from a different barrel I'd marked weeks ago as competition-worthy. On their own, they're all good.

Together… Hopefully, they'll become exceptional.

I pour sixty milliliters from the first pitcher into a glass, then thirty from the second, ten from the third.

Swirl.

Taste.

Pause.

Write.

Too tannic on the finish.

I dump the sample into the spit bucket before reaching for three clean glasses and starting over.

Again.