Page 25 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
"Because none of it means anything without you. Because I fell in love with the woman who can wrangle goats and argue about apple cider and still take my breath away every damn day. Because, Monica, you're not just my girl in the hayloft. You're my girl. Period."
His girl. The possessive certainty in his voice, the way he claims me even as he asks for forgiveness? It's everything I've been craving since the moment he walked away. Not just the physical dominance that thrilled me in our most intimate moments, but the emotional ownership that says I belong to him, and he belongs to me, no matter what.
My heart breaks open. Tears spill hot down my cheeks as I whisper, "You're such an idiot."
His smile is shaky. "Your idiot?"
Finally, I let him touch me. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. "Mine," I admit.
Mine.
The word tastes like coming home, like autumn mornings and apple cider and all the cozy promises I thought I'd lost forever. Because despite everything, despite the betrayal, the hurt, the broken trust, he's still the man who sees past my defenses to the woman underneath. He's still my Daddy, in all the ways that matter.
When he kisses me, it's not the hungry, desperate fire of the loft. It's softer, deeper, a promise. And for the first time since the news broke, I let myself believe we might be okay.
More than okay. We might actually be perfect. Not a flawless perfection of untested fantasy, but the real, hard-won perfection of two people who've fought for each other and chosen each other despite the obstacles. The kind of love story that's worth writing about, worth believing in, worth building a future on.
In the distance, I can hear the sound of children laughing on the hayride, families making memories in my orchard. And for the first time in three days, it sounds like music instead of mockery.
CHAPTER 11
The orchard is alive tonight.
The air is crisp enough to make you pull your sweater closer, but warm enough that couples can still steal kisses under the starlight. The scent of woodsmoke from the bonfire mingles with cinnamon from the donut stand and the sweet tang of fresh cider, creating an atmosphere so perfectly cozy it feels almost too good to be real. It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. Like my Perfect Professor.
The annual Harvest Moon Festival has always been my favorite night of the year, but this year feels different. This year, Brett is here.
And not just here as a visitor or an observer, but truly present in a way that makes my heart swell with possibilities I'm only beginning to let myself imagine. He's not the polished academic who walked into my orchard weeks ago with his clipboard and pristine boots. He's become something else entirely, someone who belongs in this world I've built, someone who makes it better just by being part of it.
He's standing by the cider press, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking unfairly good for a man who still insists flannel is "practical." His glasses glint under the lantern light as he showsa group of kids how the press works, his voice steady, patient. They hang on his every word.
Watching him with those children, explaining the mechanics of apple pressing with the same careful attention he once reserved for rare botanical specimens, I see glimpses of the father he might become someday. The thought should terrify me, but instead it fills me with a warm certainty that this man, this complicated, wonderful man, is exactly who I want to build a future with.
I hang on the sight of him.
Mrs. Henderson from down the road appears at my elbow, following my gaze with a knowing smile. "That young man of yours is certainly fitting in well," she observes, her voice warm with approval. "Been helping with the hay maze all evening, and I haven't heard a single complaint about getting his clothes dirty."
"He's learning," I reply, unable to keep the pride from my voice.
"Learning, nothing," she chuckles. "That boy's found his place. Question is, have you found yours?"
Before I can answer, she's melted back into the crowd, leaving me with the truth of her words. Because she's right, I have found my place. Not just in the orchard I've always called home, but in this new version of my life that includes Brett, includes us, includes the future we're building together.
I never imagined he'd fit here. The city scientist with his Latin and his clipped notes. But he does. More than fit, he belongs. The transformation has been gradual but undeniable. I watch him now, crouched down to help a little girl reach the cider spigot, and I can barely remember the man who worried about mud on his hiking boots. This Brett, the patient, gentle, completely at ease with the chaos of small-town life, this is the man I've fallen in love with.
And watching him with my family, my neighbors, the people who've known me since I was in pigtails, I realize something that makes my chest ache with joy.
He's mine. I’m not only his, but he… he belongs to me, too.
The thought sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with possession and everything to do with belonging. Not just that he belongs to me, but that we belong together, in this place, with these people, building something that's bigger than either of us alone.
"Monica!" My cousin waves me over to where she's manning the apple bobbing station. "Brett just volunteered to judge the pie contest with you. I think he's trying to score points with the family."
I laugh, making my way through the crowd. "He doesn't need to score points. He's already won over the only vote that matters."
"Yours?" she asks with a grin.
"Aunt Jeannie's," I correct, which makes her laugh so hard she nearly drops the bucket of apples.
