Brooks
The next morning, I hand Willa the delivery clipboard instead of an apron.
She looks down at it, then back up at me. “Is this a trick?”
“Usually you say good morning first.”
“Usually people don’t hand me suspicious office supplies before coffee.”
With a smile I don’t try to fight, I hand her the Calder Cider to-go mug that was behind my back, hot and black, just how she likes it.
She eyes it suspiciously. “This feels like a trap.”
“You just said you wanted coffee!”
She takes it anyway, lifting it to her lips like she’s bracing for impact. Then she pauses. Takes another sip. And another. Her shoulders drop just a fraction and she sighs, her eyes drifting closed as she savors the final swallow.
“I hate that this is so good,” she mutters.
I shouldn’t smile as much as I do. “You don’t hate it.”
“I absolutely do.”
She takes another sip. “Mm-hmm.”
I nod toward the truck parked outside the tasting room, already loaded with sample cases, invoices, and enough hope to make my stomach feel stupidly tight. “You’re with me today.”
Her brows lift. “On deliveries?”
“Some deliveries. But pitches, mostly.”
Her brows crease. “You trust me around your potential accounts?”
“No, but I need another set of hands,” I say, then pause because that’s true, but it isn’t the whole truth. “And because you should see more than just the tasting room and orchard.”
And because I want her to see how hard it is to be an outsider in a town as tightly knit as Orchard Falls.
Something flickers across her face, quick and unreadable. Then she tucks the clipboard against her chest. “Fine. But if this is your attempt to convert me, I should warn you, I’m very difficult to indoctrinate.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Orchard Falls is already showing off by the time we drive into town.
The storm scrubbed everything clean overnight, leaving the sidewalks damp and shining, the brick storefronts glowing deeper red beneath strands of maple leaves strung from lamppost to lamppost. Flower boxes overflow with mums in gold and burgundy.
Pumpkins sit on every stoop like small orange sentries.
A chalkboard outside the bookstore reads, Yes, we have cozy mysteries. No, you may not move in.
Willa catches me reading it and snorts. “June wrote that.”
“I think I met her the other night, right? One of your friends from The Mill House?”
“My two best friends. Lena is sweet and loyal. June is too, but also a professional menace.”
“Ah yes. A loved one who’s a professional menace… sounds familiar.”
She shoots me a look. “Do not compare June to Jace.”
“I would never insult June like that.”
A laugh escapes her and the truck cab feels warmer for it.
People wave as we drive down Main Street.
Not everyone, but enough.
Marcy, arranging scarecrows outside the community hall, lifts both hands like she’s directing traffic and gossip simultaneously. Old Mr. Voss from the grocery store gives me a nod. A kid in a pumpkin hat points at the Calder logo on the truck, and his mother smiles.
Willa notices, but I expect nothing less. She notices everything. “You’ve made progress,” she says.
“Some.”
“Don’t be modest. It took Max four years to get people to wave to him in town when he first moved here and opened his furniture restoration shop.”
Our first stop is The Harvest Table Café, a narrow little place with steamed windows, mismatched chairs, and the kind of menu written in chalk by someone who believes deeply in soup being a full meal.
The bell over the door jingles as we step inside, and the whole place smells like coffee, maple bacon, and biscuits warm enough to make a man reconsider every decision that led him away from breakfast.
Nora Bell, the owner, looks up from behind the counter. “Brooks, hi.”
“Good morning, Nora,” I say and just as she spots Willa behind me, her smile falls.
“And, um… Willa,” she adds, nervously. “H-hi.”
“I’m just giving Brooks a hand. It’s temporary,” Willa says brightly.
Nora hums like she doesn’t believe either of us. “Everything interesting starts that way.”
I set the sample case on the counter before Willa can answer. “I brought you the new dry reserve to try. Thought it might pair with your cheddar-apple scones.”
Nora folds her arms, her eyes darting quickly to Willa. “Well, you know I already carry Hartley cider.”
“I do.”
Willa goes still beside me.
Her gaze slides to Willa, and her smile sharpens with interest. “And you’re still pitching me? With Willa right here?”
“I’m not asking you to replace them,” I say. “Just offering another local option if you ever want variety.”
The words sound simple. They are not.
Every time I say them, it costs me something. Pride, maybe. Or the part of me that wants to prove Calder Cider belongs here by earning a spot no one can take away.
I pop open one of the bottles and pour her a taste. “Try it alongside your scone. I promise you won’t be disappointed.” I wait as she hesitates a moment, then scurries behind her counter to put a scone on a plate.
As she does that, I pour a taste for both Willa and myself. Nora takes a sip and breaks off a piece of scone, sliding the plate toward Willa and me to have some as well. We each take a small piece.
“Mmm,” Nora says after her sip. “They do pair really well together.”
Willa gives me a tight smile. “They really do.”
“At Calder Cider, we’ve been working really hard to complement the menu items at Hartley & Sons…
not compete with them. This cider is unlike anything Hartley & Sons brews and it wouldn’t take away anything from your business with them.
I… we…” I say, pausing to include Willa, maybe a bit presumptuously.
“Believe that our businesses can exist together in this town in tandem.”
I look at Willa and lift my brows at her, an invitation to chime in if she so wishes.
After a moment, she nods, her face softening.
“That’s right, Nora. There will probably always be some crossover of our products, so a little healthy competition here and there,” Willa pauses to nudge me with her elbow.
“But I agree with Brooks. We can exist in this town together without being at each other’s throats all the time. ”
Nora’s shoulders relax a fraction. “Well… I don’t have shelf space right this moment.”
“I figured.” I slide one unopened bottle forward anyway. “There’s no pressure. Keep one to try another time when you do have a moment to rethink your inventory.”
With that, we get up and leave.
Outside, Willa is quiet as we load the empty crate back into the truck.
“You didn’t argue,” she says.
“Would’ve made it harder to come back and try again later.”
She studies me like I’ve said something more interesting than I intended. “You’re very patient for someone so annoying.”
“I’m like a kaleidoscope of contradictions,” I say, grinning.
“Don’t steal my line.”
The second stop goes better.
At Orchard Pantry, a boutique grocery full of local jams, goat cheese, and honey jars with handwritten tags, Mr. Voss tastes the reserve, asks about volume, and immediately starts grilling me about production consistency.
Willa watches while I answer questions about batch sizes, storage, delivery windows, seasonal fluctuations, and whether we can guarantee supply through Thanksgiving weekend.
It isn’t glamorous. No golden orchard light. No romantic rain.
Just numbers. Logistics. Margin. The unsexy bones of keeping a dream upright.
When Mr. Voss finally agrees to a small trial order, Willa’s smile is quick and private, like she’s trying not to be pleased for me.
I see it anyway.
By our third stop, I’m fighting the dangerous urge to impress her.
Not the customers.
Her.
Which is inconvenient, considering she is wearing the name of my biggest competitor and watching my every move like she’s building a case file.
We stop at Maple & Main, the coffee shop that agreed to carry our Apple Cinnamon Crisp blend two weeks ago. The owner, Aanya, waves us in before I even open the door.
“You,” she says, pointing at me. “I need three more cases.”
I blink. “Already?”
“Sold out twice. People are feral for it.” Her gaze lands on Willa. “Oh! Hey Willa!”
Willa smiles with the gracious ease of someone who has been recognized in public her entire life. “Hey Aanya.”
Aanya leans over the counter. “A little birdie told me you sold twelve bags of this stuff yesterday at Calder.”
Willa glances at me. “Allegedly.”
“She did,” I say. “It was damn impressive.”
Aanya winks at Willa. “Maybe I need to hire you to come work for me next!”
“She’s taken,” I say before I can stop myself. The words land too loudly in my own ears.
Willa turns her head slowly. Aanya’s eyebrows climb.
I clear my throat. “By Hartley & Sons. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Willa repeats, but there’s a thread of amusement beneath it that does absolutely nothing good for my focus.
Back in the truck, the rain-dark streets shimmer under a pale morning sun, and Main Street looks almost fake in its charm. Like someone built a town out of cider donuts, old brick, and unresolved emotional tension.
Willa balances the clipboard on her knee, reviewing the orders. “I didn’t realize how hard you were fighting.”
The sentence is quiet, but it lands loud in my heart. I keep my eyes on the road. “Most people don’t.”
“I think I assumed…” She stops.
“That we opened the doors and tourists started throwing money at us?”
“Something like that.”
“I wish. I think when you’ve lived in a close-knit town like Orchard Falls your whole life, you forget how insular you can sometimes become.
For the first six months, we couldn’t get our cider in anywhere.
People were so afraid of angering Hartley & Sons.
Then we managed to get in with some of the newer people in town, like Aanya, who had once been outsiders themselves. ”
A leaf skitters across the windshield, bright red against the glass before the wipers sweep it away.
“Orchard Falls is loyal,” she says.
“Oh, I know.” Willa is the reason for half that loyalty. Or her family is. Or maybe those are the same thing. “I’m not trying to take that from you,” I say.
The cab goes quiet. At the red light, I finally look over.
Willa’s face is turned toward the window, but I can see her reflection in the glass. Thoughtful. Softer than she usually lets herself be. The morning light catches her profile, the line of her nose, the slight part of her lips like she’s holding back words that might change the shape of things.
“Did you mean what you said to Nora?” she asks. “That you’re intentionally developing products that don’t compete with Hartley & Son?”
My chest tightens, but I nod. “Of course. Why would I want to compete with a legacy brand that’s beloved? I want to exist alongside you. I don’t want to run you out of your own town.”
“I’m starting to understand that,” she says. “I really admire your innovation. I want so badly to try new things at Hartley & Sons, but there never seems to be a good time. Or it doesn’t feel like it fits our branding. Or there’s other things on the to-do list that take priority.”
The light turns green. Neither of us moves for half a second. Behind us, someone honks. Willa laughs, startled, and I hit the gas. “Right… the festival pavilion,” I say, remembering her talking about her dream of opening up an event center.
“It’s not just the pavilion. It’s the festival. The contest.” She pauses, seeming to weigh her next words carefully. “Every year, we win Best Cider. But it’s been twenty-seven years since Hartley & Sons won the People’s Choice Award.”
I remember that from last year, but I stay silent for a beat just the same, waiting to see if she’s done talking. When she doesn’t add anything more, I ask, “That’s the blind taste test, right?”
From the corner of my eyes, I see her nod.
“It’s how the festival keeps it honest, making sure the locals don’t just keep voting for the local orchard.
But… it’s still a kick in the teeth every year we don’t win in our own town.
In some ways, I think I’d rather win that award than Best Cider at this point.
” She pauses, then sends me a little smirk. “Of course, I prefer to win both.”
I grin. “Oh, of course.”
As we drive down Main Street, she looks back toward me. “For what it’s worth, I think Calder Cider is going to make it here in town.”
I almost miss the turn. “What makes you say that?”
She shrugs, but the movement is too careful to be casual. “Because you’re doing everything right. You’re becoming part of our town. And you aren’t trying to beat my family.” The words sit between us, warm and unsettling. Until she adds, quieter, “You’re just trying to build one of your own.”
For a second, I forget every route, every invoice, every pitch I planned for the day. Because she’s right. And because somehow, hearing Willa Hartley say it feels less like being understood—and more like being seen.
I pull into the next parking spot without remembering why.
Willa glances at the storefront. “This isn’t on the list.”
“No,” I admit.
“What are we doing here?”
I look through the windshield at the little bakery with fogged windows and a line already forming inside.
Then I look at her. “Buying pumpkin spice donuts.”
Her smile breaks slowly, unwilling but real. “From Dotty?”
“They’re the best in town, I hear. Plus if I have to eat another apple muffin, I might puke. I love my inventory, but good lord.”
She laughs out loud, nodding. “I know what you mean. Just don’t let Dotty hear you. She’ll never let you live it down and tomorrow she’ll have a plaque she made for herself on the wall.”
“Well, maybe she deserves that plaque,” I say.
“You’re very reckless today, Calder.”
Maybe. Or maybe I’m tired of pretending every choice is a strategy.
I cut the engine and open my door. Willa hesitates only a second before following me. And as we step together onto Main Street, shoulder to shoulder in the clean autumn air, I realize winning the Orchard Falls Autumn Festival was never going to happen from behind a tasting bar.
It happens one door at a time.
One conversation at a time.
One pumpkin spice donut with the woman I’m supposed to be beating at a time.