Willa #2
It smells…I pause… it smells like apples, yes.
But not in the warm, heavy way I’m used to.
This is sharper, cleaner. Like everything has been distilled down to its most precise version of itself.
It’s amazing how wildly different our two orchards can be even though we’re just down the road from each other.
Same climate. Same varietals. Wildly different experiences.
“Planning to stand there all day?” His voice slides across the room before I see him.
I turn to find Brooks leaning against the far end of the bar like he’s been there long enough to watch me take everything in. The sleeves of his dark henley are pushed up to reveal muscled forearms and a hand that’s gripping a mug of coffee.
And he’s entirely too at ease.
“I was deciding whether or not to be impressed,” I say.
His mouth curves slightly. “And?”
I swallow down the urge to smile at him. “I’m still undecided.”
“Take your time,” he replies easily. “You’ll be here a while.”
I narrow my eyes at him, more than a little annoyed. Because now that I’m standing here, I can feel it. This place isn’t a gimmick. It isn’t luck. It isn’t hype. Sure, it’s different from Hartley & Sons, but it has heart and a lot of hard work placed into every beam.
Careful, controlled, deliberate work.
He pushes off the bar and walks toward me, smiling as he stops just a couple steps in front of me. A little too close.
Close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath, something warm and dark that doesn’t quite match the crispness of the room.
“You’re early, Hartley,” he says.
“Get used to it, Calder. I’m never late.”
“Noted.”
My eyes flick to the coffee in his hand. Despite the fact that I’d finished my own mug minutes before heading over, I say, “What’s a girl gotta do to get one of those for herself?”
With a smirk, he hands me the steaming mug. “You’re in luck. This one’s for you.”
I blink, surprised, as the warmth of the mug settles into my hands. “You just… had a spare coffee waiting?” I ask, lifting it slightly, suspicion threading through my voice.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I had a hunch you’d show up early.”
“And you always plan ahead for your competition’s caffeine needs?”
“I always plan ahead… period,” he says simply.
I take a careful sip, letting the heat and flavor settle over my tongue. It’s good… But of course it is. The flavor blooms slowly, warm and layered in a way that has no business being this good at seven in the morning. Cinnamon first—soft, not aggressive—followed by something deeper. Toasted sugar.
Apple.
Not artificial, not syrupy, but baked. Like the inside of a pie just as it comes out of the oven, the edges caramelized, the sweetness settling into something rich and familiar.
My brows knit before I can stop them, and I take another sip, slower this time, like I’m trying to catch it in the act.
“You put cider in your coffee?” I ask, glancing up at him.
One corner of his mouth lifts. “No.”
“Then what is that?”
He pushes off the bar, unhurried, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“We roast it ourselves,” he says. “Small batches. Infused after the roast.”
“With what?” I press.
“Apple skins. Cinnamon sticks. A little brown sugar during the cooling process.”
I stare at him.
Because that’s… that’s genius. Instead of admitting that, I glare at him and say, “That’s ridiculous.”
“Mm.”
“That’s crazy—” I take another sip, annoyed at how much I like it.
“Is it?”
“That’s—dammit, that’s actually really good.”
“Yeah,” he says, watching me now in a way that feels entirely too intentional. “I know.”
“I hate that you thought of it first.”
“I know that, too. Milk’s in the fridge if you need it,” he adds, already turning away.
“I don’t,” I say quickly.
I follow him into the back, coffee in hand, and every sense in me is on high alert, cataloguing everything about this space.
The back room is sunny, polished concrete and stainless steel.
Half a dozen glass carboys line the wall, their contents golden or amber, waiting.
There’s a tang in the air—acrid, fruity, alive.
It’s nothing like the musky, woody fermentation rooms at Hartley & Sons.
This is new. This is the future. This is…
impressive, I’ll admit internally, but I don’t plan on doing so out loud.
It burrows into my stomach. There’s so much more we could be doing at Hartley & Sons.
Events with the community. With how well our apple cider donuts sell, we could have a whole bakery on site and do other apple-based baked goods, too.
We could partner with other local businesses and lift everyone in the community—a rising tide, and all that.
And yet, it all feels so impossibly out of reach.
Brooks walks ahead, shoulders loose, the very image of someone not performing, but simply being.
I watch the way he moves through his own territory and realize this is the first time I’ve seen him on his own ground.
At the bowling alley, at the bar, even at the community hall—he was never fully at home. But here, he is.
He starts talking—technical details, but not showy. He knows I know my stuff, so he doesn’t dumb it down or oversell. “We press twice a week, more during events,” he says, nodding toward a beautiful steel press in the corner. “I’m not a purist and I like experimenting with flavors.”
“Some would call that reckless,” I say.
He glances back. “Some might. Others would call it progress. Besides, we always keep at least one batch that doesn’t add anything except what the yeast actually needs.”
I hum, drinking my coffee. Of course his equipment is spotless. Of course his notes are digitized. The world outside me narrows as I catalog every little detail, checking for any edge I can file down.
Brooks grabs a pair of battered boots from a rack and trades out his loafers for them. “I thought I’d take you around to see the orchard and then we can come inside and do some bottling.”
I nod and follow him outside where the air grabs me by the cheeks, as crisp and bright as the first bite of a tart green apple.
Outside, the sun is almost too much—flooding everything in a way that makes the orchard look fake, like a painting or a memory you don’t trust. I shield my eyes as we leave the stark steel of the building behind.
Brooks walks ahead of me, his stride easy, hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans. I try not to notice, but I do.
The orchard rows are younger, finer and more surgical than the Hartley sprawl, almost military in their discipline.
Whoever plotted them should be tested for obsessive compulsive disorder.
I let the silence stretch because I’m not conceding that this works, but I also can’t deny it’s clean. Efficient.
Brooks waits at the edge, hands in his back pockets, a little grin like he’s the host of a game show and I’m the only contestant.
“Are you going to give me a tour, or just stand there enjoying the scenery?”
He tips his chin. “I thought you’d prefer to take it in first, so you could tell me everything I’m doing wrong.”
I roll my eyes, but the challenge pops something lighter in my chest. “Enticing offer. But then I’d have to charge you a consulting fee.”
He gestures me onward, and suddenly I’m walking with him past a massive tool shed, past gleaming bins and stacks of new, color-coded ladders, clearly never used in anger before. Not yet, at least.