Willa #3
And because this place is alive—and he got to build it that way.
Not alone, exactly, but with his brothers, piece by piece, decision by decision, until it became something entirely and unmistakably his.
No legacy pressing in from behind, threatening to nip at his heels.
No expectations carved into every beam. Just choices, vision, freedom.
“What made you decide to take these risks?” I ask.
“What risks?”
I gesture around at the tasting room. “Apple flavored coffee, for one. Equipment to roast your own beans is expensive. What if it didn’t work out?”
Brooks chews the inside of his cheek for a moment before answering with a shrug. “What if it did? I can always resell the equipment without taking a huge loss.” There’s a few moments of silence before he presses me further. “What risks aren’t you taking, Willa Hartley?”
“Oh no,” I hold my finger up in his face like a kindergarten teacher scolding a student who’s coloring on the wall. “I’m not telling the enemy my secrets.”
He holds up his hands. “I swear I won’t steal your ideas.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
He’s thoughtful for a beat before he shakes his head. “I guess you don’t know for sure. That’s what makes the display of trust so beautiful, right?”
I swallow, my nerves jumping from my belly up to my throat. “I’ve always wanted a festival pavilion,” I admit. “A place to host events and the community and have an outdoor beer garden…except with cider.”
“That’s a great idea. Why don’t you build that?”
I stare at him. He knows, right? He must know.
But when he just stands there waiting, curiosity lifting his brows, I realize he doesn’t.
He has no idea. I exhale a sharp sigh. “I was hoping to pitch that idea soon to my family. But then the land we would build on was locked by an easement and lawyers…”
The Calder’s lawyers.
The moment turns cold as Brooks’ face registers what I just said.
He fumbles for words and just as he opens his mouth to respond, my phone buzzes in my back pocket, saving me from having to continue this conversation.
I excuse myself and take a step away from him to pull my phone out and glance at the screen.
Patty:
Just checking in. Hope the enemy territory isn’t too unbearable. Also your dad is pretending not to worry and doing a terrible job.
I smile despite myself.
Then another message comes through.
Grandpa:
Remember: golden ticket.
I look up.
Brooks is still watching me.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“That looked like a loaded nothing.”
“It’s a family nothing,” I shrug, knowing he’ll understand.
“Ah. The most dangerous kind.”
I slide my phone away and push off the counter. “I should get back to work.”
“You are working.”
“I should work harder.”
“Willa.” The way he says my name stops me.
Not Hartley. Willa. Softer. Lower. Like the room has narrowed to the length of the bar between us.
“You don’t have to prove yourself every second you’re here,” he says.
My throat tightens unexpectedly. That lands too close. I glance away first, toward the shelves of Calder bottles catching the light. “I’m not trying to prove anything.”
“Okay.” Just that. Okay with no argument.
For the rest of my shift, I pour cider and sell coffee and pretend I don’t feel the place where his words settled under my ribs.
I pretend I don’t notice when he refills my water.
I pretend the brush of his hand against mine at the register doesn’t make heat flicker up my arm.
I pretend I’m not collecting pieces of him the same way I’m collecting details about his orchard.
His patience with customers. His quiet corrections. His absolute inability to tolerate crooked labels. The way he never oversells. The way he watches the room like every person inside it matters, myself not only included, but maybe even especially.
By the time my obligated hours are over, the tasting room has emptied into that soft late afternoon lull where sunlight goes honey-thick and every surface looks warmer than it did in the morning.
I untie the Calder Cider apron I have been very intentionally not thinking about and fold it on the counter.
Brooks watches me from the far end of the bar. “Same time tomorrow?” he asks.
I should say something sharp. Something about contractual obligations or raccoon-related hazards or how his coffee is manipulative and his tasting notes are pretentious.
Instead, I glance around the room—at the polished bar, the shelves, the windows, the cider bottles lined in perfect rows. At the place I expected to resent and ended up understanding more than I wanted to.
Then I look back at him. “Same time tomorrow,” I say.
His smile is small, but I feel it everywhere.
I step outside into the cool afternoon air, and the scent of Calder Cider follows me—apples, cinnamon, oak, sunlight… him.
Halfway to my car, I realize I’m smiling.
Not because I learned some secret weakness in his operation.
Not even because Grandpa was right.
But because for one dangerous, impossible morning, I forgot I was supposed to hate being here.
And tomorrow, I get to go back.
Not have to…
Get to.