Willa #3
He watches my expression as we walk, checking for tells, but I’m sure to keep my game face neutral.
If someone set out to build an orchard that would annoy me, he just might have succeeded. Every tree is staked, each row aligned laser-tight; even the groundcover is a uniform mat of tidy grass.
A rustling sound cuts through the rows before I can come up with another insult about his disturbingly organized grass.
“No,” Brooks hisses and grabs a pitchfork leaning against the toolshed. “Ohhhhhh, no you don’t.”
“What the—” I start to say just as something furry shoots out from beneath one of the trees, fast and round and entirely too confident for an animal standing three feet from two humans.
I stop short. No way. No freaking way. I know that stupid face. I’d recognize that little trash bandit anywhere with the tip of his tail missing.
“Pippin?” I squeak.
The raccoon freezes too, clutching a half-eaten apple in both little paws like he’s been caught mid-bank heist.
His striped tail twitches once.
Then twice.
Brooks turns toward me, brows lifting. “Pippin?”
The raccoon chitters indignantly, as if personally offended by the name.
“He used to steal apples from our south orchard every fall. Grandpa caught him sleeping in an empty Pippin bin once.”
Brooks looks back at the raccoon, then at me. “Well, that explains why he’s got expensive taste. Here, we call him Scrumpy because I found him trying to break into my cider bottles I brought back from the UK.”
I stare at the raccoon. The raccoon stares back while chewing.
Betrayal. Pure betrayal. “You defected, Pippin?” I ask him, sarcastically touching my hand to my heart, wounded. “After everything we’ve been through?”
Brooks folds his arms, watching me with entirely too much amusement. “I didn’t realize you two were so close.”
“It’s like running into an ex-boyfriend out and about,” I scoff. “That little criminal stole three cider donuts right out of a tourist’s stroller last October.”
“That’s actually impressive.”
“He also knocked over an entire bushel of Pink Ladies because he got stuck inside trying to nap.”
Pippin—Scrumpy—makes a sharp little chirping sound like he’s defending himself in court.
“How long has he been here?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Almost a year now.” Brooks glances up at me. “Started hanging around after we opened. Guess he likes the apples.”
Something ugly and irrational whispers in the back of my brain. Pippin prefers Brooks’ apples over mine.
Which is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He’s a raccoon for goodness sake. A thieving little orchard goblin with sticky paws and absolutely no loyalty.
Still, something in my chest pinches unexpectedly watching the little traitor cross closer to Brooks.
“Wow,” I murmur. “Even the wildlife is turning against Hartley & Sons.”
Brooks’s grin deepens. “Maybe he just appreciates innovation.”
“Oh my God, you are unbearable, you know that?”
“And yet,” he says, straightening slowly, “you’re still here. Bearing me.”
The breeze shifts through the orchard, carrying the scent of apples and leaves and earth still cold from the night before. Somewhere farther down the rows, wind chimes clink softly from one of the outer fence posts.
Scrumpy darts suddenly between Brooks’s boots and disappears into the trees again, apple in tow.
Brooks sighs. “We’ve been trying to capture that little menace for months and he always evades the traps.”
I shake my head. Been there. Grandpa and I tried for years to catch him, too. “Why go for the peanut butter treat in a trap when there’s a whole smorgasbord of apples to choose from?” I shake my head, trying not to smile.
Trying and failing, apparently, because Brooks catches it immediately. “There it is,” he says quietly.
I narrow my eyes. “There what is?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
He leans in, not so close that he’s touching me, but close enough that I can smell the smooth scent of his cologne. “The one where you stop trying so hard to hate this place.”
My stomach flips annoyingly hard. I open my mouth with every intention of denying it—and a loud crash echoes from somewhere near the bottling shed.
Brooks’s entire posture changes instantly. The warmth vanishes. “Dammit, Scrumpy!”
Brooks is already moving before the sound fully dies. “Stay here,” he says. Which, naturally, guarantees I follow him immediately.
He glances back once as I fall into step beside him, sunlight catching sharp along the line of his jaw.
“Do you ever listen?” he asks.
“Not when people are bossy for no reason.”
Something that feels dangerously close to a smile tugs at his mouth despite the urgency in his stride.
Then another crash sounds from the shed—followed by one of his brother’s yelling, “Get out of here, you mangy, little flea hotel!”
Brooks closes his eyes briefly like a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here.
And despite myself—I grin.
Because for the first time since I got here, Calder Cider doesn’t feel so polished.
But it does feel alive, exciting. Vibrant.
And somehow, that’s worse.