Page 3 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
But he doesn't leave.
I can feel him standing there, his presence heavy and stubborn, like one of the old apple trees that refuses to stop producing apples long after it should have.
When I finally glance back, he's still watching me. His expression, unreadable. His clipboard tucked tight against his chest like a shield.
And just like that, I know this man isn't going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Probably not until he gets whatever it is he came for.
Which means one thing:
Brett Elliot and I are on a collision course. He looks stubborn but he’s never dealt with me before. I can out stubborn a mule. What happens if we collide? Will he back down? He’ll have to. I’m not changing my mind.
And if there's one thing I've learned from life, and from the Naughty Girls Book Club, it's that sometimes a collision isn't the end. Sometimes, it's just the beginning.
CHAPTER 2
By the time the hayride barrels down the hill, squealing kids tossing straw like confetti, I've almost convinced myself Brett Elliot packed up his clipboard and hiked back to whatever ivory tower spawned him.
Almost.
But I should have known better. Men like Brett Elliot don't give up easily; it's written in every line of his perfectly pressed shirt, every precise movement of those long fingers as he adjusts his glasses. He's the type who probably has backup plans for his backup plans, who approaches obstacles like mathematical equations to be solved rather than walls to be knocked down. No, I know deep inside, he’s still here. Even if I can’t see him. Maybe he’s sitting in his car, calling someone from the county to complain about me refusing him access. Maybe, he’s sought out another one of my family members and is trying to go around me. But, I know, I just know, he’s not given up.
That’s why I’m not surprised when I swing the tractor around toward the barn, and find him there, leaning against a fence post like he belongs here. Clipboard tucked under his arm, boots still spotless, gaze locked on me.
"You're still here," I say flatly, hopping down and brushing straw from my jeans.
His mouth curves, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "You didn't actually expect me to just leave, did you?"
The way he says it, so calm, so certain, makes my stomach do a little flip. It's the tone of a man who's used to being patient, who knows that persistence wins more battles than force. There's something almost predatory about it, the way a wolf might watch a rabbit, content to wait for exactly the right moment to pounce.
I plant my hands on my hips. "That's usually what people do when they're told no."
"I'm not most people."
The nerve.
The absolute nerve of this man.
And the confidence. God, the confidence is both infuriating and oddly attractive. Most men would have slunk away by now, egos bruised and tails between their legs. But not Brett Elliot. He's standing there like rejection is just another variable in his equation, something to be adjusted for rather than accepted.
Before I can deliver the lecture he deserves, Mrs. Donnelly from down the road waves me over. Her grandkids are clamoring for cider slushies, and the line is backing up. I manage a smile, promise her I'll check to make sure we have enough workers doing their jobs, and duck into the barn.
The barn is my sanctuary, filled with the sweet scent of apples and the comforting weight of family history. These walls have seen four generations of Hunter women rolling up their sleeves and making things work through sheer stubborn determination. It's where I feel most myself, most connected to the legacy I'm fighting so hard to preserve. But even here, I can't shake the awareness that Brett is just outside, waiting with that maddening patience.
And of course, when I come back out, clipboard man is still there. Waiting.
"What can I do to convince you to leave?" I demand.
"Give me access to the northern tract."
I snort. "Try again."
He pushes off the fence post, stepping closer. Close enough that I catch a whiff of cedar and something crisp, like new books and fresh air. It hits me like a physical thing, making my pulse skip unexpectedly. It's nothing like the usual scents of motor oil and apple cider that permeates my world. This is sophistication and intelligence wrapped in masculine warmth, the kind of scent that belongs in libraries and lecture halls and probably very expensive hotel rooms. It makes me wonder what other surprises might be hiding beneath that buttoned-up exterior.
"I told you before it's important."
"AndItold you before, it's not happening."
We stare each other down. Somewhere in the distance, a goat bleats indignantly, like it's cheering for me. My goats are my second favorite part of the orchard. They are stubborn, playful and free spirited, just like me.
