Brooks
For one suspended heartbeat, neither of us moves.
Rain pours around us in shimmering silver sheets, bouncing off the flatbed, soaking through my flannel until it clings heavily to my shoulders.
Water runs down the bridge of Willa's nose before slipping from the tip like a crystal bead, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I register the absurdity of wanting to brush it away.
She still stands only inches from me.
Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her despite the cold rain.
Close enough that I can still remember exactly how it felt to have her in my arms.
The moment stretches, taut as the wire fence running the perimeter of the orchard.
Then another crack of thunder rolls across Orchard Falls, low and deep, vibrating through the ground beneath our boots and reality comes rushing back with it.
I glance toward the barn where Evan and Jace are already halfway there, wrestling with a tarp that's threatening to become airborne. They're shouting at each other, though the rain swallows every word before it reaches us.
"Come on,” I grab her hand and pull her behind me.
Her fingers slide into mine, for once not fighting me.
They're cool from the rain but strong, the calluses across her palm fitting against mine with surprising ease.
They're the hands of someone who has spent years climbing ladders, hauling crates, pruning branches, and refusing to ask for help.
Hands that somehow feel as familiar as my own.
“Where are we going?” she calls to me over the beating rain and thunder claps.
“My cabin!” I point to where beyond the western block of Honeycrisps, barely visible through the curtain of rain, the porch light of my house glows against the gray afternoon. The old farmhouse sits tucked beneath a stand of maples.
Mud clings to our soles, leaves slap against our shoulders, apples tumble from the branches with soft thuds. A gust of wind barrels through the orchard, sending rain sideways and I can feel her violent shiver rock up her arm.
By the time we reach the porch, we're both soaked straight through.
Her hair has completely surrendered, damp strands plastered across her cheeks. Water drips from the end of my nose onto the weathered porch boards as I fish my keys from my pocket.
“You lock your door?” she asks as I slide the key into the lock and twist.
“You don’t?”
“In Orchard Falls?” she shakes her head, smiling. “Never.”
Warmth greets us almost immediately as I push the front door open, carrying with it the scent of cedar, coffee, and the lingering spice of cinnamon from this morning's oatmeal.
I step aside, holding the door open for her. After she steps inside, I quietly close the door behind us.
The cabin is suddenly very still.
Rain rattles against the old tin roof, quieter here than it had been in the orchard, the steady rhythm wrapping around the little house until it feels tucked away from the rest of the world.
Willa pauses just inside the entryway, water pooling around both of our boots. She looks around slowly, taking everything in as I peel my soaking wet jacket off.
It's not a large house. The original farmhouse had been beyond saving when we bought the property, but this old hunting cabin tucked behind the western orchard had good bones.
Two bedrooms. One bathroom. A stone fireplace that somehow survived every New England winter thrown at it.
Wide-plank pine floors that creak exactly where you'd expect them to.
It isn't fancy.
Just... home. And my mom would have loved every inch of it.
Her eyes travel across the room to the leather sofa facing the fireplace, bookshelves lined with cookbooks and orchard manuals—reclaimed wood, of course, just as she had teased me for—and she pauses, one brow lifting as she glances back at me.
She points to the shelves. “I’m not usually a fan of the Rustic Pinterest boards, but I have to admit, those are some of the nicest reclaimed wood shelves I’ve seen.”
I huff a quiet laugh. "They were already here."
"Mm-hmm." Her mouth twitches like she doesn't believe me for a second before her gaze moves on to a framed photograph of my parents laughing beneath a tree with us kids standing in front of them. Beside the framed photo on the mantle, their urns rest.
"It doesn't feel temporary," she says. “The house, I mean.”
"No?"
She shakes her head. There are boots by the back door, a crossword I’ve been chipping away at folded beside the couch, and my half finished pot of coffee still sits on the counter, fully cold by now.
"It feels..." She searches for the word, her gaze lingering on the quilt folded over the arm of the couch. "...lived in."
I smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"I meant it to be. It’s unexpected from you. I pictured you more as a modern, sleek loft kind of guy.”
I shrug. “I don’t hate that aesthetic either. But when I saw this place, I knew I could be happy here. Evan would hate it. He has an apartment downtown on Main Street. And Jace… well, he’s happy just about anywhere. He converted the barn into his home.”
A loud crack of thunder rolls overhead and she jumps at the sudden noise.
"Bathroom's down the hall," I say. "Take a hot shower and get yourself warmed up.”
"Oh, Brooks, I couldn't—"
"You can and you should. I’m not having you catch a cold the week of the Autumn Festival. I think Marcy might murder me.”
One corner of her mouth lifts. "So chivalry isn't dead, I guess." Then she gestures down at her dripping body. "I don't have anything to change into."
"I've got that covered." I disappear into my bedroom before she can argue, opening the top drawer of my dresser. Sweatshirts are easy enough. Sweatpants too. I settle on my softest charcoal sweatshirt, along with a pair of gray joggers I know she will drown in. Thick wool socks round out the pile.
When I step back into the living room, she's wringing water from the end of her braid into the sink.
"I promise they're clean."
When she laughs at that, something in my chest loosens. I hand her the pile of clothes, the soft weight of worn cotton and wool settling between us like something more deliberate than it should be.
When her fingers reach for it, they graze mine—just the lightest contact, skin against skin, warm despite the chill still clinging to her from the rain. It’s fleeting, barely there, but it lingers all the same, like the echo of a note after the music stops.
Neither of us pulls away immediately.
For a heartbeat, maybe two, we stay suspended in that small, quiet space, the world narrowing to the simple awareness of touch—of her, of me, of something unspoken threading between us.
"Thank you," she says, her voice softer now, like it’s been wrapped in the same warmth as the clothes in her hands.
"My dryer is in the mudroom," I tell her. "Leave your clothes outside the bathroom door when you're done. I'll throw them in."
She blinks. "You'll do my laundry?"
"I'm drying your laundry."
She studies me for a long second, like she's trying to decide whether I'm putting on an act. Finally she nods. "Okay."
She disappears down the hallway. A moment later I hear the bathroom door click shut. Then only a brief silence before the shower turns on.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen for a full five seconds before shaking myself back to reality.
Get it together.
She's taking a shower, not moving in.
I cross to my bedroom and change out of my wet clothes, tugging on some clean, dry jeans and another henley before grabbing her clothes from outside of the bathroom. I toss all of our wet clothing into the dryer together and hit the start button.
Then I busy myself with the kettle. Outside, rain drums steadily against the windows while I slice fresh apples into a saucepan, adding cinnamon sticks, cloves, star anise, orange peel, and enough of our Hearthline cider to perfume the whole cabin.
As it warms on the stove, the kitchen fills with the kind of smell people spend hundreds of dollars trying to bottle every October.
The dryer hums from the mudroom, a steady backdrop to the quiet rhythm of the kitchen.
I lose myself in the sound. In the slow swirl of cider in the saucepan, in the curl of steam rising toward the ceiling, in the way the scent of cinnamon and clove settles into the walls. My mind drifts somewhere softer, somewhere quieter than it’s been all day.
I’m so lost in my own thoughts I don’t hear the bathroom door open. Don’t hear her footsteps on the pine floor.
“What are you making?” Her voice comes from just behind me.
I chuckle to myself and inhale, noticing the way she smells like my soap and shampoo… but also still entirely different. Like I’m smelling a mixture of me and her. And I don’t hate it. “Don’t tell me an orchard girl doesn’t recognize hot cider on the stovetop?”
“I know you’re making something with apples, I just didn’t know what.”
I turn slightly, catching sight of her for the first time and completely lose track of what I’m doing.
She's practically swimming in my sweatshirt.
The sleeves hang halfway over her hands, swallowing her completely, while the waistband of the joggers has been rolled twice and still bunches at her ankles. Her damp hair hangs loose now, curling gently around her shoulders, still darkened from the shower.
She looks… comfortable. Real. Sexy. Disheveled.
And like someone who belongs in this kitchen with me on every rainy afternoon.
The thought steals every coherent sentence I had.
"What?" she asks, looking down at herself. "Do I look ridiculous?"
I clear my throat. "No." She waits. "You look..."
Careful, Brooks.
Choose your words very carefully.
“You look adorable.”
She leans one hip against the counter and I’m still unable to look anywhere but at her. “Adorable, huh?”
“Yeah, well… you said I was handsome.”
She bites her bottom lip briefly before nodding. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“And this cabin suddenly feels way less empty with you here."
We both go silent with that final confession.
The rain continues tapping against the windows as the cider bubbles softly on the stove. Something fragile settles between us, too delicate to touch. Her eyes search mine, and for one impossible heartbeat, I think she might close the one foot gap between us.
Instead, she smiles. Small. Almost shy. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"It might be,” I say. “There’s more where that came from.”
“True. I’ve only known you for about a week.”
I narrow my eyes at her, willing her to remember me. To remember the little boy who used to come to her orchard every year from the ages of five to eleven with his brothers and parents and play hide and seek with her among the apple trees.
But recognition doesn’t come. Instead she merely points to the bubbling cider. “I think it’s done. You’re going to burn it.”
“Right… um, right.” I pull two mugs down from the cabinet and turn off the stovetop just as the front door flies open and Jace and Evan come charging in.
"Brooks!" Jace's voice echoes through the cabin. "You would not believe what—"
He stops dead. Evan nearly walks straight into his back.
Jace's eyes bounce from me...
...to Willa...
...to the oversized sweatshirt unmistakably hanging off her shoulders.
His grin grows so wide it should probably be illegal.
"Oh," he says slowly. "Oh, this is interesting."
I close my eyes. “Now you see why I lock my doors,” I say to Willa.
She laughs, covering her smile with the sleeve that's currently swallowing half her hand.
"I heard that," Jace says.
"Good. I said it loud enough.”
Evan steps around our brother and I realize they’re both dry. They must have changed at Jace’s barn loft.
“Millie’s okay over at the tasting room?” I ask him.
Evan nods. “Yeah, she’s good over there. The only folks in there are the ones who ran in from the orchard before the rain came. Probably won’t get too many walk-ins tonight with this weather.” His eyes drift to the pot simmering on the stove. “Are we, uh, still on for dinner tonight?"
"Yeah," I answer and head to the fridge to pull out the chicken I had prepped this morning. “This needs to roast for about an hour.”
"Perfect." Jace claps his hands together once before turning to Willa like the thought has only just occurred to him. "You should stay."
Her smile falters. “Stay for…”
“Family dinner night,” Jace says. “It’s Brooks’ turn to cook.”
"Oh, I don't think I shou—"
"It's pouring," Jace interrupts, gesturing toward the windows where rain continues to race down the glass in shimmering ribbons. "You've already showered. You're already wearing Brooks' clothes." He shrugs. "Feels silly to stop being our guest now."
"I wasn't really a guest," she says. “Brooks was just nice enough to let me dry my clothes—”
"Well you’re a guest now," Evan says simply.
“Besides,” Jace chimes in, “Are those clothes dry yet?”
“Um… no, but…” She looks at me then, almost asking permission.
I shrug, trying to sound far more casual than I feel. “You’re welcome to stay. It’s not a fancy dinner. Roast chicken, potatoes and broccoli, but we’d love to have you.”
Another roll of thunder rattles the windows.
Willa glances outside, then back at the three of us. Finally, she lets out a small laugh and shakes her head.
"I suppose one drumstick isn't going to destroy the rivalry."
Jace pumps a fist. “That’s the spirit!”
Before I can overthink anything, I grab a mug from the cabinet and pour cider from the pot warming on the stove and hand it to her.
"Thanks,” she gives me a shy smile and tucks her wet hair behind her ear with her free hand.
"Hey," Jace says immediately, stepping closer. "Where's mine?"
Evan leans against the counter, already reaching for another mug. "Yeah, don't play favorites."
I roll my eyes, grabbing two more mugs and shove them into their chests. "You two are not guests and both have perfectly functional hands."
Willa laughs softly into her cider, and I swear the sound settles somewhere under my skin. I catch her eye over Jace's shoulder as she smiles over the rim of her mug.
"Hey,” I tease, “Don't get used to this.”
"I wasn't planning to."
The problem is… I’m not entirely sure I believe her.