Brooks #2
“I don’t mind anything of yours,” I admit softly.
Her mouth curves, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I told my family you weren’t trying to replace us.”
Something in my chest tightens. “Oh? What did they say?”
“Grandpa scoffed. Said it was hard to believe when there are lawyers involved over land.”
I sigh and scrub my palm over my face. This easement was becoming more trouble than it’s worth.
“I know,” I sigh. “But fighting for that land was a contingency for purchasing the property with the bank. I know the previous owners allowed you to use the land, but in all those years, you never planted trees there—”
“Because we always wanted to build on it,” she says, thrusting her hand into her hair.
“I know,” I say, gently. “I get it. But if we don’t do our due diligence of trying to get this land, we could lose our entire orchard.”
Her expression softens at that and she finally nods after a long beat. “Fair enough,” she finally says. “And for all Grandpa’s complaints, Dad and Patty understood.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “And what about you?”
Her eyes hold mine. “I’m getting there.”
The last bit of cord slips free, but I don’t step back. Neither does she.
We’re tucked behind the booth, half-hidden by crates and hanging lights, close enough that I can see the faint dusting of cinnamon sugar near the corner of her mouth. Close enough that I can hear the little catch in her breathing when my gaze drops to it.
“Willa.” Her name comes out rough.
She tilts her face up.
The festival blurs behind her, all gold and laughter and motion. But here, in this pocket of shadow and apple crates and tangled lights, everything goes still.
I lift my hand. Slowly enough that it gives her every chance to move away if she doesn’t want me touching her. But she doesn’t.
My thumb brushes the corner of her mouth, catching the sugar there. Her lips part on a breath, and the tiny sound she makes nearly ends me. When her eyes flick to my mouth, I don’t think about competition or booths or brothers or the fact that she belongs to the orchard down the road.
The space between us has never felt smaller. Or larger. One more inch and everything changes. One more inch and we're no longer competitors circling the same dream.
We're just...
A man. And a woman.
Standing beneath a canopy of autumn lights while the whole town bustles around us, completely unaware that the earth has stopped turning.
"Willa," I say again, her name leaving my lips like a confession. Whatever restraint I've been clinging to all week slips quietly through my fingers. I close the distance.
The first touch of her lips is so soft I almost wonder if I've imagined it. I haven't.
She's warm from the afternoon sun despite the crisp autumn air. She tastes faintly of cinnamon sugar and cider, sweet without trying to be, familiar in a way that makes absolutely no sense considering we've only known each other a couple of weeks.
I've kissed a lot of women.
I've even loved one once, in the na?ve, uncomplicated way people do before life teaches them grief and responsibility and sacrifice.
But nothing has ever felt like this.
Like finding a place I didn't realize I'd been searching for.
Her hand slides slowly up my chest, gathering the fabric of my flannel in her fingers before coming to rest against the back of my neck.
Not pulling, simply choosing. Choosing me.
The realization hits with the force of a falling apple. She's kissing me back. Not because the moment swept her away. Not because the lights are pretty or the festival is romantic or we're hiding behind her family's booth.
Because she wants me too.
A quiet sound escapes her, barely more than a breath, and it unravels something deep inside me.
I cup her cheek and she leans into my hand as though it belongs there. As though it always has.
When we finally pull apart, it's only far enough for our foreheads to rest together.
Neither of us says anything.
We don't have to.
Some moments are too fragile for words.
When I open my eyes, she’s already looking at me. There's wonder in her gaze. And relief. Like we've both spent a week standing on opposite sides of a river neither of us knew how to cross.
She smiles first… small, tentative, beautiful.
"I was starting to think you were never going to do that,” she whispers.
I laugh softly, my forehead still against hers. "I've been trying not to."
"How's that working out for you?"
I stare at the tiny flecks of gold in her green eyes. The strand of hair the wind keeps blowing across her cheek. The way she's still close enough that I can feel the warmth of her breath every time she exhales.
Then, I kiss her again. This one isn't tentative. It's certain. It carries every smile across a tasting bar. Every shoulder brush. Every rainstorm. Every shared cup of cider. Every conversation that turned competition into understanding. It's all there.
Everything we've been too stubborn—or too afraid—to say.
"Willa!" Marcy’s voice cuts through the air like a fire alarm. “Willa? Willa? Where are you?”
Willa jerks back so fast one of the light strands swings between us.
For one second, we just stare at each other, breathing hard.
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes wide, and I’m standing there with the taste of cinnamon sugar on my thumb and the distinct feeling that my self-control has just filed its resignation.
Marcy appears at the edge of the crates, clipboard clutched to her chest, utterly oblivious to the fact that she has just interrupted something that might have ruined me. “Oh, there you are! And good, Brooks, too! We need you both at the judging table right now.”
Willa blinks. “Both of us?”
Marcy beams. “Yes! The festival committee wants a picture of all the orchards entering the cider competition.”
Willa closes her eyes for half a second. And somehow, the kiss hanging between us feels louder than anything Marcy could possibly say next.
Because now we both know.
Whatever this is between us—it isn’t almost anymore.