Page 2 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
The way he says it makes me want to mess up his perfect hair just to see what happens. There's something about overly controlled men that brings out my rebellious streak, and this one looks like he's never had a hair out of place or a thought out of order in his entire life. It's the kind of buttoned-up composure that practically begs to be unraveled. The type that would never last five minutes in my chaos orchard.
I snort. "In English, please. We grow apples here, not cast spells."
He blinks at me, clearly not used to people brushing him off. "A rare apple cultivar," he clarifies. "Potentially extinct. I need access to the northernmost section of your orchard. The overgrown tract by the river."
That gets a laugh out of me, sharp and humorless. "Yeah, no. Absolutely not."
His brows furrow. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I hop down from the tractor, boots sinking into the mud, and plant myself in front of him. He's at least six inches taller than me, and I hate that I notice. "That part of the orchard is off-limits. It's nothing but brambles, poison ivy, and trouble. And I don't need some stranger with shiny bootsstomping around and making more work for me." The liability issues would be a nightmare. The words come out sharper than I intend, but something about his assumption that he can just waltz onto my property and demand access rubs me wrong. I've spent my entire life protecting this place, and I'm not about to let some ivory tower academic with a clipboard demand access. Who did he think he was?
"They're hiking boots," he corrects stiffly.
"They're spotless," I shoot back, my gaze dropping deliberately to his footwear. "Clearly never seen a real orchard."
And they really are spotless, made out of an expensive-looking leather that's probably waterproof and designed for weekend nature walks, not the kind of muddy, exhausting work that keeps an orchard running. Everything about him is polished and perfect, from his pressed khakis to his neatly trimmed fingernails. He's the kind of man who probably irons his socks and keeps his spice rack alphabetized. I’m sure the contents of his refrigerator are perfectly arranged with all leftovers thrown out within an appropriate time frame, instead of being allowed to grow mold. Yeah. We couldn’t be more different.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Him with that stiff, academic posture, me with grease on my hands and mud on my jeans. Oil and water.
Finally, he exhales, adjusting his glasses like he's buying time. "I have permission from the county to conduct this research. But out of courtesy, I introduced myself before entering your land."
"Well, Brett Elliot," I mimic his prim tone, "courtesy noted. Permission denied. The county can’t give you permission to explore private property."
The challenge in his eyes spark something dangerous in my chest. My heart is beating fast, and I have the same reckless feeling I get when the girls in book club dare me to readthe really steamy scenes out loud. It's the thrill of pushing boundaries, of seeing how far I can go before something gives. And something tells me that beneath all that buttoned-up control, Brett Elliot might be exactly the kind of man who knows how to push back.
Before he can argue, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out, grateful for the excuse to turn my back on the man who has now crossed his arms over his chest and is staring me down. The Naughty Girls Book Club group chat is lighting up like fireworks.
Christine: Tonight’s plans? Pumpkin spice latte + chapter twelve
Maya: Just finished the kitchen scene. Never looking at spatulas the same way again.
Maybe I need to replace all my plastic ones with a couple sturdy wooden ones.
Holly: Stopppp I'm only on chapter seven! Don't spoil it!
Me: Busy drowning in cider barrels, but I'll make it. Probably late.
I shoot off my response and bite back a smile. My friends are ridiculous, but they're the best kind of ridiculous. A few months ago, I joined my favorite author’s online book club. There were even local chapters that met in person. RJ, Emily, Holly and I met up just last week for coffee. Once a week the entire club hops on Zoom together. We laugh, we gossip, and we blush our way through stories none of us would have admitted to liking out loud anywhere else.
Tonight is our next meeting. The timing is perfect or terrible, depending on how you look at it. Here I am, standing in front of a man who looks like he stepped out of the pages of our latest read, all brooding intensity and barely restrained authority, and my phone is buzzing with messages about kitchen counter scenes and spatulas. If Christine could see him, she'd probably combust on the spot. Hell, if any of the girls could see him, they'd be texting me demands for photos and detailed reports within minutes.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, cheeks a little warmer than I'd like.
Of course, Mr. Clipboard notices. He tilts his head, studying me the way I imagine he studies his plants and looks at me like I'm under a microscope. "Everything all right?"
"Peachy," I reply too quickly.
He doesn't buy it. I can see the skepticism in his eyes. Eyes that are annoyingly sharp, by the way. He narrows his eyes, and I see that look. It’s the look of a man who notices too much. He doesn’t miss a thing.
So, I go on the offensive. "Look, I appreciate your enthusiasm for apples, but you're barking up the wrong tree. Find another orchard for your treasure hunt. There are many to choose from on the Front Range."
His jaw tightens. "You're making a mistake."
"Maybe," I admit, squaring my shoulders. "But it's my mistake to make. And right now, my mistake is deciding this conversation is over. Some of us have real work to do." I keep my face neutral even if I feel a pang of guilt at my words.
The dismissal should be enough to send him packing, but something in his expression tells me this conversation is far from over. There's a patience in his stance, a quiet determination that suggests he's used to getting what he wants, eventually. It'sthe kind of persistence that should annoy me but instead sends a little thrill down my spine.
I dismiss him by turning my back toward the tractor, pretending I know what I'm doing, pretending my pulse isn't racing from the sheer audacity of this man waltzing into my orchard like he owns the place.
