Willa
The next day by mid-morning, I’ve learned three things about Calder Cider.
One: their tasting room gets busier than I want it to.
Two: their Apple Cinnamon Crisp coffee is problematically delicious.
And three: Brooks Calder in his own element might be the most inconveniently attractive thing I have ever witnessed.
Not that I’m noticing… obviously. I’m simply observing.
Strategically.
Grandpa said I’ve been handed the golden ticket into the chocolate factory, and I am taking that seriously.
If Brooks expects me to spend my obligatory hours here politely pouring cider and smiling through gritted teeth, then he doesn’t know me nearly as well as he thinks he does.
I’m watching everything. The way customers move through the room.
Which bottles they pick up first. Which labels make them pause.
Which questions they ask when they think no one important is listening.
The tasting room fills slowly at first, a soft trickle of tourists in fleece jackets and ankle boots, shoulders still hunched from the chill outside. Then, as the sun climbs higher and the orchard beyond the windows turns bright gold, the trickle becomes a stream.
The room changes with people in it.
Earlier, it felt polished and clinical. Almost too perfect.
But now there’s life in it—the scrape of stools against the floor, the low murmur of conversation, the musical clink of glasses being set down on wood.
Sunlight catches in the amber cider flights lined up along the bar, turning them into little rows of liquid fire.
It smells like apples and oak and coffee and something yeasty from the back room, all of it braided together into a scent that is not at all like Hartley & Sons and therefore should not make me feel even remotely sentimental.
But it does. Which is annoying.
“Flight language,” Brooks says from beside me, setting four small tasting glasses on a wooden paddle. “That’s where we start.”
I glance at him. “Flight language?”
“The way we talk people through our cider.”
“I know how to talk people through cider.”
“I know you know how to talk people through your cider.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re splitting hairs.”
“Only the ones that matter.”
He doesn’t smile when he says it, which makes it worse.
Because he’s not even teasing me. Or being flirty.
No, he’s focused, sleeves pushed up again, dark hair falling slightly forward as he leans over the bar to adjust the glasses.
The movement pulls the fabric of his henley tight across his shoulders, and I hate that my eyes notice before my brain can file a formal objection.
He picks up the first glass and holds it to the light. “We don’t start with tasting notes.”
I blink. “Everyone starts with tasting notes.”
“Well, here at Calder Cider, we start with mood.”
I stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
Now he smiles, small and slow, like he knew that would get me. “You heard me. Mood.”
“That sounds like something a man with reclaimed wood shelves would say.”
He pauses, his eyes flicking to the back door.
“Oh my God,” I say, burying my laughter. “You do have reclaimed wood shelves, don’t you?” I snort and open my notes app to jot down the word: Mood.
His brows crease as he notices me taking notes. “What are you doing?”
“I’m collecting evidence.”
“Against me?”
“Always.” When he doesn’t answer, I look up to find him suspiciously narrowing his eyes. “I’m taking notes about your flights. What else would I be doing? Jeez. Paranoid much?”
Except… he has every right to be paranoid. I am taking notes on his orchard… meticulous notes. That I plan on using later.
This seems to appease him though and he slides the first tasting glass toward me.
“This one is Hearthline. Semi-dry. A little tannic. Good structure. But if I tell a customer that first, half of them glaze over. If I say it’s the one you drink beside a fire after a long day when you’re pretending you don’t need a second sweater, they understand it immediately. ”
I look down at the glass, irritated by how much I understand exactly what he means. “One might call that manipulative.”
“Well… I call it storytelling.”
I lift the glass and take a cautious sip.
The cider hits crisp first, then softens—dry enough to feel clean, warm enough to linger.
There’s a faint bitterness at the edge that keeps it from being too easy, and I hate, absolutely hate, that my mind immediately supplies: old wool blanket, smoke in your hair, someone’s knee brushing yours under a porch table.
Damn him.
I mean, look, our cider is just as good as this. Some may even be better. But the fact that one of his recipes is this good only one year after opening? That’s unnerving as hell.
“Well?” he asks.
I set the glass down carefully. “It’s good.”
His brows lift. “Good.”
“Perfectly acceptable.”
“Such glowing praise,” he snorts.
“I’m not here to flatter you.”
“No,” he says, leaning one forearm on the bar, his eyes warm with amusement. “You’re here because you lost.”
The words should sting. Maybe they do, a little. But far less than yesterday.
I lift my chin. “Temporarily.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth for half a second, quick enough that I almost convince myself I imagined it. “Then you’d better learn fast.”
A couple approaches the bar before I can answer, both of them bundled in matching navy vests, looking delighted by the sheer concept of being alive in September. The woman’s eyes go straight to the flight paddle.
“Oh, this is so cute,” she says. “We’ve been trying ciders all weekend. Is this your place?”
Brooks shifts instantly—not fake, not salesman-slick, but warmer and more open. “It is. I’m Brooks Calder. I own the orchard with my brothers.”
I watch him shake their hands, ask where they’re visiting from, listen like the answer matters. He doesn’t rush them, doesn’t drown them in facts. “What do you two usually drink? Beer or wine?” he asks, then keeps pressing them. Dry or sweet? Adventurous or safe?
The husband smiles with a glance at his wife. “She’s adventurous. I’m safe.”
Brooks nods solemnly. “A common marital divide.”
The wife laughs, and just like that, they’re his.
I hate how good he is at this.
No. That’s not true.
I hate that I like watching him be good at it.
He glances toward me. “Willa’s going to walk you through this one.”
My spine straightens. “I am?”
He nods. “You are.”
The couple turns to me, smiling expectantly.
For one petty second, I consider giving them the most technical, joyless rundown possible. Brix levels. Tannin. Fermentation temperature. The kind of explanation that would make Brooks regret handing me the reins.
But then the woman lifts the glass and looks at me with honest excitement, and I can’t do it.
I’m many things. A saboteur is not one of them.
I pick up the bottle and glance at the label. Ember Gold. The cider in the glass is deeper than the others, honeyed amber with a faint haze.
“This one,” I say slowly, “is for people who think they want something sweet but don’t actually want to admit they like complexity.”
Brooks goes very still beside me.
The woman grins. “That sounds like me.”
“It starts warm,” I continue, surprising myself as I lean into it. “A little baked apple, a little caramel at the edges. But it doesn’t collapse into sugar. There’s enough acid underneath to keep it bright.”
The husband takes a sip and nods. “That’s really good.”
“It would pair well with sharp cheddar,” I say, then add before I can stop myself, “Or pork tenderloin with mustard glaze.”
I can feel Brooks’ eyes on me, but I don’t look back.
The woman immediately reaches for a bottle. “We’ll take one.”
“And the coffee,” her husband adds, picking up a bag of Apple Cinnamon Crisp from the display. “She smelled this earlier and made a noise I’ve only heard when our dog gets our leftover french fries.”
I smile. “That’s because it’s unfairly good.”
Brooks lets out a quiet laugh beside me. The sound is low and warm and settles somewhere beneath my ribs before I can stop it.
After they check out and wander toward the patio, Brooks turns to me. “Unfairly good?”
“I stand by the statement.”
“You sold two bottles and coffee.”
“I’m aware.”
“That was impressive.”
I pick up a clean glass and polish it with more intensity than necessary. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked.”
“You’re making your impressed face.”
He tilts his head. “I have an impressed face?”
“Unfortunately.”
He leans closer, dropping his voice so only I can hear. “What does it look like?”
I should not answer that.
I absolutely should not answer that while he is standing close enough that the sleeve of his shirt brushes my arm, while his mouth is curved like he already knows he’s gotten under my skin, while the whole room smells like cinnamon coffee and cider and sunlight-warmed wood.
But apparently I am not currently making wise decisions.
“It looks smug,” I say.
He laughs softly. “I’ve been told that’s just my face.”
“Hm. Tragic.”
“Tragic? Ouch. That’s a new one. My face has been called a lot of things before, but tragic isn’t one of them.”
I shrug, nonchalant. “I’m a maverick.”
“Yes, you are.” His eyes hold mine, and the joke thins into something else. The air between us tightens, not with argument this time, but with awareness.
A customer laughs somewhere behind us. Glass clinks against glass. The register drawer slides shut with a soft mechanical chime.
Neither of us moves until Brooks reaches past me for a tasting glass on the shelf behind my shoulder.
He could ask me to move… but he doesn’t.
His chest brushes my upper arm as he reaches, a light contact that should mean nothing and somehow manages to pull every nerve in my body awake.
I inhale too sharply and catch the scent of coffee lingering on him, apple and cinnamon and something darker underneath.
Not cologne. Not soap exactly. Just Brooks. Warm skin and work and morning.
His hand closes around the glass.
He doesn’t step back right away.
For a second, we are both very still.