Page 4 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
The tension stretches between us, thick as the honey from our bees. I can see the moment he makes his decision, almost watch the gears turning behind those sharp brown eyes. Whatever he's about to propose, I have the feeling it's going to change everything.
Finally, Brett exhales, adjusting his glasses. "What if we struck a deal?"
I raise an eyebrow. "A deal. What kind of deal?"
"You let me into the overgrown section. In return, I help with… whatever you need around here." He gestures vaguely toward the orchard, the hayride, the chaos of small children chasing a terrified chicken.
The offer catches me completely off guard. I was expecting more academic arguments, maybe some name-dropping of important botanical societies or threats involving county officials. I wasn't expecting him to volunteer for manual labor. The image of Professor Perfect hauling apple crates and wrestling with farm equipment is so absurd. I laugh, sharp and disbelieving.
"You? Hauling cider barrels and wrangling goats? You wouldn't last ten minutes."
His jaw sets. "Try me."
The challenge in his voice does something dangerous to my pulse. It's the same tone I imagine he uses in academic debates or with students who question him. His tone is quiet but absolute, daring anyone to test his resolve. And suddenly I want to test it, to see if all that polished control can survive contact with real work and real chaos. And me. Can he survive me? "Why would you even want to?"
"Because my research matters." His tone softens. "And because I can see you're swamped. If it gets me where I need to go, I'm willing to earn it."
There's something in his voice when he says his research matters, a passion that breaks through all that academic composure. For the first time since he walked into my orchard, I catch a glimpse of the man beneath the professor. And despite myself, I'm curious. What could be so important about a bunch of old apple trees that it brought him here? What kind of discovery could make a man like this willing to get his hands dirty? Why is this important?
I fold my arms tighter. He's not wrong about me being swamped. The tractor's failing, half the orchard crew called out this week with some sort of upper respiratory virus, and if one more goat escapes the pen, I might actually lose my mind. But letting him trample around in the old tract? Not happening. It’sa lawsuit waiting to happen. It’s overgrown with broken down vehicle pieces spread all over. If he falls… if he breaks a leg… My orchard can’t handle any negative news or a financial crisis.
Except… I don’t think he’s the type of man who would sue us if he fell.
"Fine," I say slowly, watching his eyebrows shoot up. "You can help."
He nods, triumphant.
"But," I add, holding up a finger, "helping doesn't guarantee access. You earn trust first. Then we'll see."
His mouth tightens. "That wasn't the deal."
"That's the only deal on the table." I need to make sure my gut instinct is correct about him. Make sure he is trustworthy. Make sure he won’t sue the pants off of me if a liability occurs and has no evil intentions for my property.
We're standing closer now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in that dark brown, close enough to notice the way his jaw flexes when he's thinking. There's something almost magnetic about his intensity, the way he focuses on a problem like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
We stare at each other again, heat prickling in the crisp autumn air. He's not used to being challenged, but I'm not about to roll over.
Finally, he extends a hand. "Agreed."
I glance at his palm. Clean. Precise. Probably moisturized with lotion that costs more than anything I’ve ever owned. "Hope you don't mind getting dirty."
His lips twitch. "Depends on the kind of dirty."
The words hit me like a physical blow, sending heat racing up my neck and into my cheeks. Because suddenly I'm not thinking about mud and apple pulp and farm work. I'm thinking about the kind of dirty that features prominently in our book clubselections, the kind that involves strong hands and commanding voices and exactly the sort of trouble I have no business imagining with a virtual stranger. The Daddy kind of trouble. Could this man be a dominating Daddy type? Nah.
Come on, Monica. Get your thoughts out of the gutter.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, unexpected and infuriating. He meant mud. Obviously. But my traitorous brain flashes to last week's book club pick, where the heroine ended up bent over a kitchen counter, having a wooden spoon applied to her naughty behind before being told exactly how dirty she was about to get.
Nope. Not going there.
I grip his hand firmly, ignoring the zing that shoots up my arm. "Welcome to Hunter Orchards. You break it, you buy it."
CHAPTER 3
If I had to describe fall harvest season in one word, it would be bedlam. It’s been one day since Brett showed up at my orchard. He returned today, exactly on time, and I’d expected nothing less from him. Like any other day, bedlam has taken over.
But it's the most beautiful kind of bedlam, the kind that romance novels are built around, all golden light and cozy chaos and the promise that something magical might happen between the apple trees. The air is crisp with the first real bite of autumn, and everywhere you look there are families making memories, couples stealing kisses behind the cider barn, children shrieking with pure joy as they discover the perfect pumpkin. It's the kind of setting that makes you believe in happy endings.
