Page 13 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
Those forearms are becoming a problem. Every time he lifts something heavy or reaches for a high shelf, the muscles flex under his skin in ways that make me lose track of whatever I was supposed to be doing. It's ridiculous! I'm a grown woman getting distracted by a man's arms like some teenager with a crush. The good Lord knew what he was doing when he made Brett’s arms though… I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be held in them… after he’s done doing completely dirty and delicious things to me, of course.
Lost in completely inappropriate thoughts, I drop a box of apples and he crouches beside me instantly, gathering strays before they roll away.
"Slow down," he says. "You're going to hurt yourself."
“Have you looked around here?” I scowl, brushing hair from my face. "I don't have the luxury of slowing down."
“You’ll slow down so you don’t hurt yourself.” His hand stills on an apple, eyes meeting mine. "Or I'll make sure you do."
The promise in his voice makes my breath catch. Not a suggestion or an offer, but a statement of intent. Like he's already decided that taking care of me is his responsibility, and he's just waiting for me to accept it.
"You don't get to 'make sure' of anything in my life, professor."
"Don't I?" he asks softly. Not teasing. Not smug. Just certain. The kind of certainty that should infuriate me. Instead, it sends a dangerous thrill through my chest, the same feeling I get when I read about heroines surrendering control to heroes who actually deserve it. The kind of men who don't just demand obedience but earn it. They earn her respect and if I were to be honest with myself, Brett has done everything right. He’s been respectful, patient and kind. Nothing he’s done has been offensive or rude. Although, I’ve been trying my hardest to hate him. I can’t hate him. Honestly? There’s not a dang thing about him I hate. No matter how hard I try.
I drop my gaze, pretending to focus on the apples, but the truth is undeniable: I'd obeyed him last night when he told me to move closer to the fire. Obeyed without even thinking. I obeyed him when he told me to breathe. I’ve obeyed every command he’s issued me. Without thinking. Without pausing. He commands and I obey.
And I hated how much I liked it.
“I need to go get a few things done. Check on Clyde and the guys out in the field and hang a new bunting. The old one got destroyed in the storm.” What I really need is a break from his presence. “Can you help Sadie grab another barrel of apples?”
He looks at me like he’s going to say no. Instead, he nods. “Don’t climb the ladder without getting someone to spot you.”
After checking on the guys cleaning up fallen limbs from the storm, I head back to the barn. I'm balancing on the fourth rung of the ladder, stretching to hang the new bunting across the farm stand when the ladder wobbles.
The wooden ladder is old, probably older than I am, and definitely not designed for someone of my less-than-graceful tendencies. But it's what we have, and the bunting needs to go up, and I've never been good at asking for help when I think I can manage alone.
"Damn it," I gasp, clutching the top rail.
Before I can fall, Brett's hands clamp around my waist, steady and unyielding.
"I told you not to climb without someone holding the ladder." His voice is quiet steel. His hands are large and warm, spanning my waist with a confidence that makes my pulse skip. There's nothing hesitant about his touch, nothing apologetic. He's holding me like he has the right, like my safety is his responsibility whether I asked for it or not. And, I absolutely have not. I should thank him though, but instead… my mind and my common sense seem to want to war with each other.
"I didn't ask for your help."
"You didn't have to." He grips the ladder, anchoring it with his body while keeping one firm hand at my hip. "Finish the banner. I've got you."
I've got you.
Three simple words that somehow manage to be both reassurance and promise. His hand stays steady at my hip, notpossessive but protective, reminding me that I'm not alone up here. That someone is watching out for me, whether I think I need it or not. The words melt me from the inside out. I can feel the strength in his hold, a hold I’d been curious about just hours before. I can feel the power in his arms. I don’t know when he finds the time, but he definitely works out.
I tie the bunting as quickly as possible, heart hammering. When I climb down, his hand lingers just long enough to make me shiver.
He notices. Oh, he definitely notices. The smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth speaks volumes. He's learning what makes me respond, what breaks through my defenses. It should alarm me how easily he reads my body's reactions. Instead, it makes me wonder what else he's noticed about me. He leans in close.
“You are lucky you aren’t mine. Disobedience that puts you in harm's way would have to be dealt with.”
I don’t have time to consider what he means or to think of a response before Vincent Van Goat is running by. The chase is on and his words, momentarily forgotten.
Later, I’m back in the barn and I’m sorting through the bruised apples that had fallen during the storm. Some are worth selling, others will be used to make apple sauce, cider or jam. I have my favorite playlist streaming and sunlight slants through the high windows, catching dust motes in the air.
“Want some help?” Brett appears in the doorway.
No. Yes. Maybe? I’m not sure what I want.
“Grab that barrel over there and separate out the bruised apples that can be sold from the ones that can’t.” We have a discount bin in the store, salvageable but less than perfect apples go for half off. Many women come and sort through them for pie making.
There's something meditative about the work, something that lets my mind wander while my hands stay busy. It's the kind of peaceful moment that feels stolen from the usual chaos of the orchard, made more precious by the quiet companionship of working alongside someone who doesn't need constant conversation. I don’t feel the need to small talk or to hear my own voice with Brett. He works methodically, separating bruised fruit from the glossy, unblemished ones. I sneak glances at him, at the way his big hands cradle each apple, like it's precious. Gentle. Careful. Intentional. I want him to hold me the same way.
