Willa #2
He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, “There’s room for more than one cider on our taps.”
Brooks steps up beside me like this is a normal place for him to stand. Like we’re old friends casually sharing bar space and not rival orchard owners circling the same ground.
“I’m meeting with James,” Brooks says evenly. “Same as I’ve been doing with half the businesses in town.”
James nods a little too eagerly. “I rotate local drinks, Willa. You know that. I have to consider everyone.”
“Everyone,” I repeat. “Including the orchard that opened a year ago and immediately decided it belonged everywhere.”
Brooks’s mouth twitches. “Funny. I thought belonging was something you earned.”
Behind us, pins crash loudly—someone lands a strike—and a few heads turn our way.
I keep my smile fixed. “You’re using this town’s nostalgia to sell your cider.”
He turns toward me fully now, eyes sharp. “And you’re using your last name like armor.”
That lands harder than I expect. “I work my ass off,” I snap.
“I didn’t say you didn’t,” he fires back. “But don’t pretend taking over for Hartley & Sons doesn’t come with already open doors for you that stay closed for the rest of us.”
A bowler on lane three misses a spare and swears loudly. The timing is impeccable.
James clears his throat. “Listen maybe we all just take a breath—”
“No,” I say, not looking at him. “He wants to talk about fairness? Let’s talk about it.”
Brooks leans closer, lowering his voice—but not enough. “I’m not a stranger to this town, Willa. My family made memories here. Same as yours.”
I scoff. “Then why does this feel like a hostile takeover?”
“Because … you’ve never had to fight for space,” he shoots back. “You inherited it.”
Pins crash again. Laughter. Someone whispers my name.
I feel the heat rise in my chest, equal parts anger and something dangerously close to understanding.
Brooks exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not here to push you out, Willa.”
“Then stop acting like you’re entitled to everything my family has worked for,” I reply. It’s one thing when a neighboring town opens an orchard and hard cidery. It’s another thing to have one open a mile down the road with a shared strip of land that is a legal gray area of who owns it.
His gaze holds mine, steady and unflinching.
The words hang there—charged—while the lanes thunder behind us.
It’s like everyone in Orchard Falls is leaning in, already sensing this is about to get good.
James shifts uncomfortably. “For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “people are excited about both of your ciders. It’s good to have a little friendly competition in town.”
That stops us. The word friendly hangs there, both optimistic and doomed.
Brooks glances at me, something thoughtful sliding into his expression. “That’s not a bad idea,” he says slowly. “A competition.”
I let out a short laugh. “We’re already competing. That’s literally what the Orchard Falls Cider Competition is.”
“Not like this,” he replies. “Not without excuses. No panels. No politics.”
A few people nearby pretend very badly that they’re not listening.
“What are you suggesting?” I ask.
He tilts his head, studying me the way he did last night at the restaurant, like he’s weighing something more than words. “Just how well do you think you know your apple varietals?”
I snort. “Better than I know my own body.”
Brooks’ eyes flash and take a slow, sweeping glance at me from head to toe. My cheeks grow hot. Dear God, why did I mention my body to this man?
His smirk tips higher. “That’s quite sad, Willa.”
I roll my eyes and fold my arms. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?”
Oh, jeez. Am I sweating? I think I’m sweating. “I can tell any type of apple from one single bite.”
“You trust your palate that much?”
My spine straightens. “More than I trust yours.”
Silence.
Even the lanes seem to quiet, pins resetting with a mechanical hum instead of their usual clatter. Someone drops a ball behind us and no one laughs.
Brooks’s mouth curves. “Then let’s test it.”
“How?” I ask.
“Blind,” he says. “Apple varietals. No labels. No bias. Just taste.”
My pulse kicks. “Fine.”
James blinks. “Uh—”
“Blindfolded,” Brooks continues, eyes locked on mine. “Sliced apples. We both have to identify the varietals.”
“And who sets it up?” I challenge.
A voice cuts in immediately. “I do.” Marcy appears like she’s been summoned by the promise of drama, clipboard already in hand, Autumn Festival jacket zipped to her chin. “We could do it right after the pie competition.”
Brooks doesn’t look away from me.
“And what do I get after I win?” I ask, pointedly.
This only makes his smile grow wider. It’s an annoying sexy smile. Slightly crooked like his nose and charming in the same way a movie star’s is.
His gaze flicks over me, thoughtful, then sharpens. “Loser works at the winner’s orchard.”
A ripple goes through the room.
“Say that again,” I say.
“Public-facing work,” he adds evenly. “Every day leading up to the Autumn Festival. Until the Autumn Cider Competition.”
My heart thumps, equal parts outrage and exhilaration. “No sabotage.”
“Obviously.”
“No backing out.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We stare at each other, the space between us charged and crackling, like we’ve just stepped onto something neither of us fully understands yet.
“Deal,” I say.
“Deal,” he echoes.
Marcy beams like she’s been handed a Christmas gift. “I’ll announce it first thing tomorrow!”
As if she needs to. The whole town will know before I get into my pajamas tonight.
The bowling alley explodes.
Cheers. Whistles. Someone yells, “Put me down for ten bucks on Hartley!” Another shouts back, “Calder’s got this!” Grandpa lets out a low hum of amusement. Patty’s smile is slow and knowing. Dad looks like he might faint.
Brooks extends his hand.
I hesitate for half a second—then take it.
His grip is warm. Steady. Unyielding. Heat radiates up my arm, tingling down my spine.
“May the best palate win,” he says.
I smile sweetly. “I plan on it.”
The noise swells around us—cheers, laughter, Marcy already announcing something far too loudly—but Brooks doesn’t let go of my hand right away.
Instead, he tugs gently. Just enough that I stumble a half-step closer before I can stop myself.
My breath catches. “What—” I start.
He leans in, close enough that I can smell apples and something warm and familiar beneath it. His mouth brushes the shell of my ear as he lowers his voice, private despite the crowd.
“You keep dropping your shoulder,” he murmurs. “That’s why the ball’s pulling left.”
My pulse trips.
“I—” I swallow. “I didn’t ask for bowling advice.”
His hand slides to my hip—not possessive, just steady—and he adjusts me an inch to the right, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I know,” he says softly. “But you’re muscling it. Let the ball do the work. Relax your wrist. Look at and aim using the arrows, not the pins.”
His breath is warm. Too warm. For a split second, the bowling alley disappears—no pins, no crowd, no bet. Just him, close enough that I could lean forward and make a very bad decision.
“You’re enjoying this,” I whisper.
A smile curves against my ear. “Maybe.”
Then he straightens, releasing me like he hasn’t just undone my concentration and my dignity in the span of three seconds.
“Try it,” he says, already stepping back. “Trust me.”
I glare at him, heart hammering, skin still buzzing where his hand was. “Trust you? Never,” I say.
His eyes flick down to my mouth, just for a beat. “We’ll see about that,” he replies.