Page 1 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
CHAPTER 1
The tractor coughs, groans and sputters before letting out one pitiful puff of black smoke, and dies. Again. For the fourth time in two days. I don’t want to go tractor shopping in the middle of the season. My bank account doesn’t want me to buy a new one, either. I don’t have time to drive two hours to the nearest auction.
How did my life end up like this?
I slam my palm against the steering wheel. "Come on, old girl. Just give me another week."
The irony isn't lost on me that I'm begging a machine older than I am to cooperate, while surrounded by the picture-perfect fall scene that brings tourists from all over the country. Golden leaves drift lazily from the maple trees lining the drive, and the air carries that crisp promise of fall that makes people think about cozy sweaters and romantic walks through apple orchards. This is the kind of scene you see in every opening of a fall Hallmark Movie. It’s supposed to be magical, the kind of setting where fairytale romances bloom alongside the harvest apples and large orange pumpkins.
Hallmark can ignore the nuances that make the scene real. Vehicles breaking down, animals passing away, crops notperforming. A new species of beetle that says, ‘hold my beer’ to the very hungry caterpillar. Some might say these things add character, others would feel like it distracts from the setting. At my orchard, we try to give our visitors a place where they can suspend disbelief and enjoy the perfect, cozy fall experience. Which means, removing the old, groaning tractor from view.
The orchard hums around me with the sounds of harvest, and I keep all the muttering of curse words in my head and out of my mouth. Kids squeal from the pumpkin patch where my cousin's wife is setting up a photo booth, and the faint notes of fiddle music drift from the speakers by the cider barn. I should be feeling the magic of fall, the cozy postcard version that tourists love.
Instead, I'm straddling a tractor that might explode if I look at it wrong.
If this were one of the romance novels the Naughty Girls Book Club has been devouring lately, this would be the moment when the devastatingly handsome stranger appears to save the day. Some rugged mechanic with calloused hands and knowing eyes who'd lean over the engine, fix it with a few expert touches, then look at me with that smoldering intensity that makes heroines weak in the knees. But this is real life, not fiction, and the only thing appearing in my orchard today is a growing to-do list and a bank account that's hemorrhaging money faster than I can make it this season.
I kick the side of the tire with the toe of my boot, not hard, just enough to vent my frustration. The tire's coated in mud from the storm last night, and now so are my jeans.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
I climb back up onto the tractor and try to start it again. Nothing. This time I punch the steering wheel.Not hard, just out of pure frustration.
Come on damn it, start.
"Maybe if you stopped assaulting it, it would cooperate."
The voice doesn't belong here. Too smooth. Too polished. Definitely not from anyone I know. And what is that accent?
Suddenly, my romance novel moment has arrived, except instead of a rugged mechanic, I'm staring at what looks like a university professor who wandered off from his stuffy college campus office and somehow ended up in my muddy orchard. This is not the fantasy rescue I didn't know I was hoping for. Of course it's not. Since when did magical things happen to or for you?
Never.
My life is hard work and harder chaos.
The stranger stands at the edge of the path, tall and broad-shouldered, his khakis looking way too clean for this much mud. His flannel shirt is tucked in and in his hand, of course, is a clipboard.
Of course.
Everything about him screams "city" and "academic" and "probably has strong opinions about proper comma usage." While I couldn’t tell you the difference between a comma, a semicolon and an em dash. His dark hair is perfectly styled despite the October breeze, and behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes are the kind of deep brown that romance authors always describe as "chocolate" or "coffee."
But there's something else there too, an intensity that makes my pulse skip.
He’s not a mechanic. Not a Navy SEAL. Not a sexy mountain man with a thick beard. None of the typical alpha male heroes I read about. Although, the broad chest and deep voice had me intrigued. Maybe he’d remove the glasses and turn into Superman. He's sexy, in a nerdy type of way.
"And who exactly would you be?" I demand, crossing my arms. “This area is not open to the public.”
He steps closer, and I see half a dozen small baggies clipped neatly to the board filled with samples of soil, leaves, maybe bark. The kind of thing that screams scientist on a mission. Scientist? Why would a scientist be here?
"Brett Elliot.” His voice is deep, steady, and annoyingly confident. "Botanist. I'm here to study a rare species of Malus domestica rumored to be on this land."
Malus domestica?
What the fuck is a malus domestica?
What language is he speaking? Latin?
Yes, Latin. There’s a man here speaking Latin… To me… and my apple trees?
