Willa
By the time I lock up the orchard and drive into town, Orchard Falls has fully shifted into its evening personality.
Morning Orchard Falls is all mist and intention and hardworking locals pretending we don’t care that our town becomes a fall-themed snow globe every year.
Evening Orchard Falls?
Evening Orchard Falls is a flirt.
Pumpkin shaped string lights glow over Main Street like the town is trying to seduce everyone at once.
Shop windows are dressed in pumpkins and apples and plaid.
The sidewalks are packed with tourists clutching cider cups, pumpkin spice lattes, and taking photos like fall might disappear if they don’t document it thoroughly enough.
Someone is playing acoustic guitar outside the bakery, and it’s annoyingly charming.
I park six blocks from The Mill House because the universe loves irony and also because I waited too long and now every closer spot is filled by a Subaru with “FALL VIBES ONLY” bumper stickers.
The air bites my cheeks the second I step out, crisp and sharp in a way that makes me feel awake instead of cold. I tug my scarf tighter around my neck and start walking, boots clicking against the sidewalk as my phone buzzes.
Lena:
We got a booth. June is already judging everyone’s sweater choices.
I smile despite myself, tucking my phone away.
Dinner with the girls is supposed to be the part of my week where I loosen my grip on everything. Where I stop counting days. Stop calculating sugar levels. Stop replaying worst-case scenarios like they’re movie trailers I can’t turn off.
But as I push open The Mill House’s door, warmth and noise and the smell of fried deliciousness slaps me in the face, and my brain unhelpfully circles back to Sixteen days.
Like it’s a fun little soundtrack.
“Willa!” someone calls before I even make it three steps inside.
I lift a hand in greeting, automatically smiling. This is the part of small-town life no one warns you about when you inherit a legacy business: you, yourself become public property.
A couple at the bar nods at me, the woman practically vibrating with excitement. “You’re Willa Hartley, right? The cider queen? We did your orchard tour today,” she says, pointing to themselves. “Mr. and Mrs. Cambright!”
“Oh, yes, yes” I manage, bright and polite even though I don’t recognize them at all. “It’s nice to see you again.”
She beams. “Your apple cider donuts were life-changing,” she says. “Although he preferred your apple fritters,” she adds, gesturing to her husband.
“I’m so glad! I’ll tell our baker, Eli that,” I say, and the couple squeals like I’ve given them backstage passes.
I escape toward the back, weaving between tables and tourists in flannel. The place is packed. A chalkboard near the kitchen reads:
Tonight’s Specials
Butternut squash ravioli
Maple-glazed chicken
Pumpkin Spice Martini
June would call this “aggressively on-brand.” She would say it with both affection and judgment, which is her greatest skill.
Our regular booth is tucked in the corner near the back where it’s quieter and the lighting is softer and the waitress doesn’t look at you like you’re ruining her life by asking for extra napkins.
Lena and June are already there—Lena in a sweater the color of pumpkin flesh, June with her dark hair pinned up and lipstick on like she’s going to a book launch instead of a casual dinner with the girls at the old mill.
The second I slide in beside her, June looks me up and down, picking a leaf out of my hair. “You look like you fought an apple tree and lost,”
“I fought several apple trees,” I correct, dropping my bag beside me and exhaling like a deflating balloon. “And they absolutely won.”
Lena grins. “Big harvest day?”
“The biggest.” I grab the menu even though I already know what I’m ordering. “Which means I’m not allowed to think or talk about cider or the competition for at least… thirty minutes.”
They exchange a look.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t start…”
“I didn’t say anything,” Lena protests, hands up.
June clears her throat and adds, “But since you brought it up—”
“Thirty. Minutes,” I repeat.
June smiles sweetly. “Fine. We’ll talk about something else.”
“Thank you.”
“Like how every tourist in town is wearing the same scarf,” she adds.
“I swear they hand them out at the city limits,” I say, flipping the menu open. “Step one: cross into Orchard Falls. Step two: receive scarf. Step three: buy a cider donut and take a photo holding it in front of the mountains.”
“Step four,” Lena says, “ask Willa Hartley where the ‘real fall experience’ is.”
“Step five,” June adds, “use the phrase quaint like it isn’t an insult.”
I laugh, and it feels so damn good. Like my lungs finally remember what they’re meant for.
Kris, our waitress swings by with our waters and the kind of smile that says she’s already been asked fifteen times if the pumpkin cheesecake is “gluten free in a spiritually inclusive way.”
“Hi, ladies,” she says. “Willa, your usual?”
I blink. “You know my usual?”
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.
“Oh no,” I squeak.
It’s my first night off of orchard duty early enough in weeks to eat dinner in public, and here I am, getting blindsided by Brooks Calder and his entire male model brew-master entourage.
He reaches us, stopping at the edge of the booth like he belongs there. Like he’s always belonged there even though he only just moved to town a little over a year ago.
“Willa Hartley,” he says, voice warm and annoyingly pleasant. “Didn’t expect to see you out.”
I arch a brow. “In my own town?”
“Well, you’re usually stuck in your orchard.”
Up close, he’s even worse. The kind of handsome that feels unfair when paired with that kind of ease.
His eyes do a quick sweep—boots to jacket to face—like he’s taking inventory. The awareness snaps tight between us, sharp and unexpected. The kind of attention that makes you hyperaware of your own body and how it’s positioned and whether your hair still smells like apples.
I don’t like that my pulse reacts.
Actually, I hate it. I hate that my pulse reacts at all.
“These are my friends,” I say, mostly because I can’t think of anything better and because I refuse to be the only one who feels off-kilter right now.
Brooks’s gaze flicks to Lena and June with an easy politeness that makes me want to throw something. “Brooks,” he says, offering his hand to June first. “Nice to meet you.”
June shakes it, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “June.”
“Lena,” Lena says, shaking his hand too.
Brooks’s brothers hang back, grinning like this is entertaining. One has lighter hair and a mischievous face. The other looks older, calmer—like he’s the one who breaks up fights and pays the bills.
June, traitor that she is, immediately goes friendly. “You’re the Calders. Like Calder Cider.”
Brooks nods. “Guilty.”
“And you’re entering the contest again this year?” Lena says. The words hit my spine like a cold splash.
I whip my head to her. “Lena.”
“What?” she says innocently. “It’s just a question.”
Brooks’s smile deepens. “That’s right. Planning to take that blue ribbon this year, if I do say so.” Then, he has the nerve to send me a cocky wink.
“If I do say so,” I murmur quietly, mocking his light southern drawl as I take a sip of my drink.
He tilts his head. “What’s that?” he asks even though I’m pretty sure he heard me.
“Good luck,” I manage instead.
One of his brothers snorts. Brooks glances back like he’s warning him to behave.
“Willa, I know you and I have met before, but have you met my brothers?” Brooks asks.