Page 12 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
His words cut through me, warm and dangerous, and I look away fast. The invitation in his voice is unmistakable, and so is the promise. That if I let him, he'd take care of more than just broken shutters. That I could trust him with the bigger fears, the deeper vulnerabilities I've never shared with anyone.
Near midnight, the power goes out. The barn sinks into shadow, the only light from the stove's orange glow. The darkness changes everything, making the space feel smaller andmore intimate. The storm outside becomes a soundtrack rather than a threat, wrapping us in our own private world.
Brett moves first, fetching extra wood, tending the fire like he's been doing it all his life. I watch him quietly, arms folded, not sure what to do with the strange knot in my chest.
"Come closer," he says finally, voice calm. "It's warmer here."
"I'm fine."
"Monica." Just my name. Low. Firm. Like a command.
And there it is again, the tone that bypasses my conscious mind and speaks directly to something deeper. The way he says my name makes it sound like a caress and a command rolled into one, impossible to ignore or resist.
And my feet betray me, carrying me closer before I can think.
“Good girl.” It’s the second time he’s complimented me like this. The second time he’s called me a girl, like a damn child or a pet dog. It should infuriate me. It doesn’t. It makes my clit pulse. It’s a sentence I’ve read in a hundred romance novels. A sentence I’ve heard in my dreams. A sentence that should offend instead of turning me into a pile of mush.
The heat of the stove, the crackle of fire, his steady presence, those two words, all press in at once. I lower myself onto the hay beside him, blanket wrapped tight, pulse hammering.
Sitting this close to him feels like the most natural and most dangerous thing I've ever done. I can smell his cologne mixed with woodsmoke, can feel the solid warmth of his body just inches away. Every breath brings his scent; every heartbeat brings awareness of how easy it would be to close the distance between us.
He doesn't touch me. He doesn't even look at me. Just stares into the flames, utterly composed.
But I can feel it. Feel everything and nothing at once. I feel the pull, the weight, the unspoken question hanging between us. I feel the attraction neither of us wants to admit is there. For aman, a stranger. And, I have no doubt, a dominant. A tender, observant and firm dominant. The kind I’ve wished would appear for years.
And here he is. Sitting beside me. I’ve always had courage to speak my mind, to defy societal norms and live life the way I want. Until now. My outspoken personality has suddenly gone silent. The tension is thick enough to cut. This is the moment in every romance novel where the heroine stops fighting her attraction, where she finally admits what she wants. Maybe I should make the next move? No, this isn't fiction, and I'm not brave enough to take that leap. Because, what if I’m wrong? What if these thoughts are colored by my love of a good romance novel mixed with sheer exhaustion? This could all be in my head.
CHAPTER 6
The storm clears by morning, leaving the orchard smelling like wet leaves and woodsmoke. The air has that sharpness that makes you pull your sweater tighter and breathe deeper at the same time. It's the kind of morning that feels like a fresh start, all clean air and golden light filtering through the remaining drops on the apple tree leaves. The storm has washed the world clean, leaving everything bright and renewed. If I were writing this scene for the book club, this would be the moment when everything changes between the hero and heroine. But I’m not an author. I’m the oldest daughter who inherited the family orchard. It’s a lot of work keeping it running during the year. But in the fall? It’s almost an impossible task.
I step outside the barn, blinking against the watery sunlight. My boots sink into mud, the ground soft from last night's downpour. Behind me, Brett emerges, stretching like he actually got sleep. I did not. My body aches from tossing on the hay, nerves wound too tight from sharing space with him and that storm.
Sharing space.
That's one way to put it. Another way to put it would be spending the night hyperaware of every sound he made, every shift of his body, every quiet breath that reminded me he was there, just a few feet away, radiating that calm competence that makes me want to test his control. Test my theory about his dominant tendencies. Throw myself at a virtual stranger. Although, this last week, I’ve gotten to know him a lot better than I would have thought.
"You look tired," he observes.
"Gee, thanks," I mutter, tugging my hood up. "Nothing like a compliment to start the day."
His mouth quirks, not exactly a smile, but close. "You should have gone home when the storm let up last night. You’d have slept better in your own bed. I would have been fine alone.”
"I can handle sleeping in the barn. I’ve slept there many times."
"I know you can handle it." His tone is calm, steady, too steady. "But just because you can doesn't mean you always should."
There's the implication again. The one that suggests I don't have to carry everything alone, that accepting help doesn't make me weak. It's a seductive idea, especially when it comes from someone who's proven he can actually provide that help. But surrendering control, even a little bit, feels like stepping off a cliff.
I turn quickly, striding toward the tractor shed. "Come on. Work doesn't wait just because Mother Nature threw a tantrum."
By midmorning, the sun burns through the clouds, turning the orchard into a postcard. Leaves glow amber and gold. Kids on a field trip shriek on the hayride. The smell of frying donuts drifts on the air. You’d think I’d get tired of this. The same foods, the same drinks, the same atmosphere day in and dayout for two months. I don’t. When the fall has come and gone, and the winter months strip the trees and there isn’t an apple in sight, I’ll miss this. I’ll miss warm apple cider drizzled with just the right amount of caramel on top, warm donuts that melt on my tongue and laughter. So much laughter. Watching families make memories on the land that has been in my family for generations.
It's picture-perfect fall weather, the kind that makes tourists drive for hours just to experience authentic orchard life. City people who come in with the outfits they’ve bought for this experience, who go back to their cubicles and talk about how they roughed it. This is the kind of day that should make me grateful for the business, proud of what I've built here. Instead, I'm distracted by the way Brett moves through the chaos with that same unflappable confidence, like he's found his place in my world. I don’t want him here. I don’t want him to be comfortable in my world. Right? I mean, he has a life and a job and is as temporary as the yearly harvest.
Today, he trails me like a shadow, clipboard tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He doesn't complain about hauling cider crates or corralling kids, he just does it. Efficiently. Thoroughly. Infuriatingly.
And every time he gives me that level, assessing look, it makes me feel… seen. Too seen.
