Page 24 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
Anna: She's not going to forget him. Don't even pretend.
They know me too well, these women who've become my chosen family through late-night chats about fictional men and real-life dreams. They understand that this isn't just about a professional betrayal. No, it’s more. Even though he only came into my life two weeks ago, we’d connected unlike anything I’ve felt before. I’ve never had sex with a man in so short a time. I’ve never had sex with a man I wasn’t in a committed relationship with. I fell hard and fast… I was stupid. I feel for a man who seemed to step straight out of our favorite books, the one who made me believe that dominant, protective heroes actually exist in real life.
I bury my face in my pillow, aching. They're right. I can't forget him. Every corner of this place has his fingerprints now. They are on the tractor he finally mastered, the goat pen he reinforced, the memory of his hand warm on my cheek.
And the way he made me feel in the hayloft.
The way he called me good girl.
The memory sends a fresh wave of pain through me because it wasn't just about the physical pleasure, though that was devastating enough. It was about the emotional surrender, the way he made me feel safe enough to be vulnerable, cared for enough to let go of control. And now I wonder if any of it was real, or if I was just another conquest to him.
A sob breaks free before I can swallow it. How could I have been so wrong about someone?
He comes back on the third day.
I should have known he wouldn't give up easily. Brett Elliot isn't the type to accept defeat gracefully. But I'm not ready for this conversation, not ready to face the man who holds my heart even as he breaks it.
I'm in the sorting barn, separating perfect apples from the cider-bound bruised ones, when the door creaks open.
"Monica."
My whole body stiffens. I don't look up. "Thought I told you to leave."
"You did." His voice is rough. "But I can't. Not without fixing this."
Fixing this.
Like what happened between us is a mechanical problem that can be solved with the right tools and enough patience. Like trust can be repaired as easily as a broken tractor or a loose shutter.
I slam another apple into the cider bin. "You can't fix betrayal."
"You're right." He steps closer, slow, careful, like approaching a skittish animal. "But I can apologize. And I can try to make it right."
There's something different in his voice, a vulnerability I've never heard before, an uncertainty that suggests he's not as confident in his ability to solve this problem as he usually is. It makes me want to look at him, to see if his composure has finally cracked the way mine did.
Finally, I whirl on him, ready to unleash every ounce of fury still coiled in me. But he looks… wrecked. His hair mussed, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep.
This isn't the polished professor who walked into my orchard all those weeks ago, or even the controlled man who disciplined me in the barn. This is someone who's been suffering, someone who's lost something precious and is finally realizing what it cost him.
"I messed up," he admits, hands open at his sides. "I thought the discovery would help you, when all it did was hurt you. I thought it could bring in more money for you. With the tractor needing replaced and the petting zoo needing reinforced… it doesn’t matter what I thought. I should have talked to you. Instead, I hurt us."
I fold my arms, biting down hard on the part of me that wants to soften.
Because this is how it always happens in the books, the hero makes a grand gesture, delivers a heartfelt apology, and all is forgiven in a rush of romantic satisfaction. But this is real life, and real trust takes more than pretty words to rebuild.
"I've already called my boss," he continues. "I told him there won't be another press release. No journalists, no tours, no outside interference. The fruit stays here. With you. Protected."
My breath catches. "You did that?"
The sacrifice implicit in his words hits me like a physical blow. Because I know what this discovery means to his career, what opportunities he's just closed off, what professional doors he's just slammed shut. And he did it for me, for us, for the orchard he's learned to love almost as much as I do.
He nods. "Because this orchard isn't just your legacy anymore. It's… ours. If you'll let it be."
The walls around my heart crack. "Why, Brett?" My voice trembles. "Why fight for this, for me, when you could've had fame and glory? Your name in scientific journals?"
Fame and glory. The things that motivate most people, the rewards that academic careers are built on. But he's throwing them away for a stubborn woman and a small orchard in the middle of nowhere Colorado, and I need to understand why.
He steps closer, his hand lifting but not touching, like he's waiting for permission.
