Willa #2
I shake my head and stick out my hand. “I don’t believe so.”
“This is Evan, my older brother,” he says, then shifts to point to his left. “And this is Jace… the baby of the family.”
“So you’re the Willa Hartley,” Jace says, like he’s just put together a puzzle he’s been enjoying far too much. “Ohhh. This makes sense now.”
I glare at him. “What makes sense?”
“That look,” he says cheerfully, pointing at my face. “That right there is a competitive look.”
Brooks chuckles. “She had it the first time we met too.”
June’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve met?”
“Briefly,” I say. “Contentiously.”
Brooks tilts his head. “I’d say passionately.”
“I’d say you were condescending.”
“And I’d say you were bossy.”
I lean forward, smiling sweetly. “Say that again and I’ll show you exactly how bossy I can be.”
The connection between us twists tighter like a coiled spring. Undeniably changed.
Behind Brooks, Evan clears his throat. “We should grab a table.”
Brooks doesn’t move right away. His gaze holds mine, curious now. “Guess we’ll see each other around,” he says.
“This town isn’t that big,” I reply. “It’s hard to avoid your competition.”
His smile turns slow. “Good. I’ll see you around, Willa.”
Something about the way he says my name—easy, familiar—makes my pulse trip like it’s embarrassing itself on purpose.
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” I reply.
He starts to turn—and that’s when a voice behind him calls, loud enough to carry across the restaurant. “Brooks Calder! There you are!”
Brooks pauses, looking over his shoulder.
Marcy Richards hustles toward him in an Orchard Falls Autumn Festival committee jacket, cheeks pink from the cold. She’s holding a clipboard. Because of course she is.
In Orchard Falls, clipboards are basically a second currency.
“Oh no,” I breathe.
June leans in. “What’s Marcy doing here?”
“She’s taking over as chair of the Autumn Festival committee. Which means she runs all of us this year.”
Brooks takes a few steps back from my table, leaving warmth and tension and the distinct feeling that my quiet dinner has officially been ruined.
June exhales dramatically. “Oh my God.”
Lena presses her lips together, delighted. “So… that’s him.”
“That,” I say, already tired, “is Calder Cider.”
And apparently, he’s decided to make himself very comfortable here in Orchard Falls.
Marcy reaches Brooks, smiling like she’s just found a missing child in a crowd. “I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “We need to finalize the judges for the Pumpkin Pie Contest!”
Brooks blinks. “Tonight?”
“Yes,” Marcy says brightly. “Because the kickoff weekend is a week from Saturday and I refuse to be caught unprepared. And also because half the town is already asking.”
My spine straightens.
The Pumpkin Pie contest is… mine.
Not in an entitled way. In a I have been doing this for six years because Marcy’s predecessor, Edna asked me once and then never let me stop way.
It’s the festival’s appetizer event—a tasting panel the week before the big competition, where local restaurants and cafes submit their pumpkin pies and the winner’s pie is selected for the yearly pie eating contest.
It’s not the Fall Cider Competition, but it’s close enough to matter. It’s a town bragging rights thing. It’s a visibility thing. It’s… territory.
And I usually judge it along with my grandfather.
Brooks says, “I thought you said you already had a judge.”
Marcy waves her clipboard. “We did. We do. But we’re expanding. And so we’re in need of another judge.”
My stomach drops again. “You are?” I say, loud enough that Marcy’s head snaps toward me.
Her face lights up like she’s only just seeing me sitting here. “Willa! Perfect timing!”
I stare at her. “I’ve... been here the whole time. Am I still one of the judges?”
“Yes,” Marcy says, giggling as if I’ve made an adorable joke. “But sadly, your grandfather has asked to not judge this year.”
“He—he did?” This is news to me. Why wouldn’t he tell me that himself? “I—” I glance at June and Lena like they can save me. They don’t even try. June looks delighted. Lena looks like she might die happy right here in the booth.
Marcy turns to Brooks. “And Brooks will be the second judge.”
I choke slightly. “Excuse me?”
Brooks’s brows lift. “I didn’t agree yet—”
“Oh, come on!” Marcy nods emphatically. “It’s the perfect balance. And good for optics.”
“Optics,” I repeat, because that’s a word you use when you’re about to ruin someone’s life.
“Tourists love a panel,” Marcy says. “They love banter. They love local personality. And Brooks is—” she glances him up and down like she’s assessing his marketability “—a very good addition.”
Freaking. Barf. In. My. Mouth.
Brooks’s mouth twitches. “I’m being recruited for my … marketability?”
“More like for your face,” Lena murmurs.
“And body,” June says, louder than Lena. I elbow her hard enough to make her yelp.
Marcy continues, unstoppable. “Plus, Calder Cider is sponsoring the raffle this year and we need to show that Orchard Falls welcomes growth.”
Ah. There it is. The word that always means change whether you like it or not.
Brooks looks between Marcy and me, his expression sharpening with interest like he’s just been handed a front-row seat to something fun.
I sit up straighter. “Marcy, I always judge the pie competition—”
“And you still will,” she says brightly. “Just… with help.”
“I don’t need help.”
Marcy pats my shoulder like I’m a child who’s announced she’s going to live on candy. “Sweetheart, it’s not about need. It’s about the committee’s vision.”
My eye twitches.
Brooks’s voice slides in, low and amused. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t ask for this.”
I shoot him a look. “That does not make me feel better.”
His grin turns lazy. “Well, I’d hate for you to be bored.”
June makes a sound that is definitely a suppressed squeal.
Lena grabs her water like she’s watching a show.
Marcy claps once, triumphant. “Great! So it’s settled. Willa and Brooks will judge together. We’ll do the tasting a week from Saturday at five at the community hall.”
“But—” I start.
Marcy cuts me off. “It’ll be great!”
I inhale, slow and controlled, like Patty taught me.
Two judges.
And Brooks Calder somehow encroaching on my territory like it’s his new favorite casual hobby.
Marcy scribbles something on her clipboard, then looks up again. “Oh! And Willa, bring your tasting notes list. Brooks will need guidance.”
Brooks’s brows lift. “Guidance.”
“Yes,” Marcy says. “Because Willa is the expert.”
I should feel smug about that. Instead, I feel like I’ve just been volunteered to babysit a handsome problem.
Brooks’s gaze slides to mine, his expression unreadable for half a second—then it’s back to amused.
“Guess I’ll see you next Saturday,” he says.
“It’s my town,” I mutter. “I can’t exactly hide.”
“Good,” he says, like that’s his favorite answer.
Then he turns and follows his brothers toward the bar, leaving a wake of laughter and warmth and the distinct sensation that my life has just gained an unnecessary complication with great shoulders.
I sit there, staring at the empty space where he stood.
June fans herself with the menu. “Oh my God.”
Lena bites her lip like she’s trying not to smile. “Oh my God is right.”
I look between them. “Don’t.”
June ignores me. “You and Brooks Calder judging together? That’s basically the start of every 90s romcom.”
“It’s basically the start of a nightmare,” I correct.
Lena’s eyes gleam. “It’s basically chemistry.”
“It’s basically sabotage,” I say.
June leans forward, dropping her voice. “Wait. He’s literally Calder Cider! You’re judging an event that’s a pregame to the competition with your enemy. Isn’t that—”
“A conflict of interest?” I finish flatly.
“Yes.”
I exhale, already feeling the pressure crawl back over my skin. “I think that’s exactly what Marcy was going for. Any chance I can tell Marcy to kick rocks?”
June shakes her head. “You can’t. She runs the whole town now.”
Lena lifts her water glass. “To Willa Hartley.”
I blink. “What?”
“To surviving being publicly forced into a judging panel with a hot man who annoys you,” Lena says, too pleased. “May your eye rolls be dramatic and your palate be sharp.”
June raises her glass too. “And may the sexual tension be unbearable.”
I stare at them, then lift my own glass because what else can I do? “May my town stop meddling in my life,” I say.
They clink their glasses against mine anyway.
Across the restaurant, Brooks glances over his shoulder—like he can feel it—and catches my eye.
His smile is slow. Like he already knows this is going to be fun.
I tighten my grip on my glass and smile back, sweet as cider and twice as dangerous.
Fine. If Brooks Calder wants to step onto my turf, then he can learn exactly what happens when you challenge a Hartley in Orchard Falls.
Sixteen days until the Fall Cider Competition.
And apparently, ten days until I’m stuck judging pumpkin pie with the enemy.
Sixteen days to prove I can carry what my family built.
Sixteen days to prove I’m not the weak link in a four-generation chain.
Sixteen days to find out if Hartley & Sons is still a legacy—or just a memory.