Page 7 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
I shove the phone back into my pocket and clear my throat. "So, scientist. Still think you can handle orchard life?"
He wipes sugar from his fingers, meeting my eyes steadily. "I think I can handle you."
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with implications I don't want to examine too closely. Because the way he says it, calm and certain and just a little bit challenging,makes me think he's not just talking about orchard work anymore.
My stomach flips, heat crawling up my neck.
I look away, forcing a laugh. "Big words for a man who lost a wrestling match to a goat."
"I'm still standing." His tone is quiet, sure. "That's more than I imagine most people can say after their first day here."
I open my mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. He lasted. He hauled cider, wrangled kids, and survived the chaos. And somehow, I don't hate having him here as much as I thought I would.
Which is dangerous. Very, very dangerous.
Because if I let myself think too long about the way his voice wrapped around me when he said don't move, I might admit something I'm not ready to admit. That part of me wanted to listen. That part of me is starting to wonder what other commands that voice might give, and how willingly I might follow them.
CHAPTER 4
The morning starts with the tractor refusing to start. Again. Next season I’ll have to buy another tractor. That’s a next season issue. I beg, plead and pray and finally, Old Bertha sputters to life. I let out a breath of relief. But then, two seconds into starting, it sputters and dies.
Of course it does.
It's like the universe has a personal vendetta against me, timing every mechanical failure for maximum inconvenience. The kind of cosmic joke that would be funny if it weren't happening to me, if I weren't the one standing here in front of a line of eager families while my livelihood sits silent and stubborn. I’ve heard of Murphy’s Law and decided that I must be Murphy’s Mistress for the sheer amount of time he spends on me.
I sit in the driver's seat, key turning uselessly in the ignition while the hayride families form a line behind me. It's a crisp Saturday morning, the orchard buzzing with tourists, and this rusty old beast chooses now to die.
"Problem?" Brett's voice drifts over my shoulder, smooth and irritating.
I grit my teeth. "No problem. Just mechanical betrayal."
The last thing I need right now is Professor Perfect witnessing my equipment failures. Bad enough that he's been shadowing my every move for the last three days. Now he gets to watch me fail at the most basic level, keeping my own machinery running.
He studies the tractor, then climbs up beside me. "May I?"
"No."
He ignores me, leaning closer, and the air shifts. His scent cuts through the engine fumes, his shoulder brushing mine as he peers at the ignition. He’s close.
Too close. Way too close. A man shouldn’t smell this good. A man working in an orchard should definitely not smell this damn good. His arm brushes against mine. He leans forward, his chest pushing into my back.
The contact sends an unwelcome jolt of arousal through me, the kind of awareness I've been fighting since he first walked into my orchard. His presence fills the small cab, making me hyperaware of every breath, every heartbeat. This is what the heroines in our book club selections are always going on about and until now, I figured to be fiction. I’ve only ever read about the magnetic pull toward a man who radiates competence and authority in equal measure, I’d never experienced it firsthand. And, God, is it magnetic. I want to lean back into his arms, feel his strength around me. I fight the urge to turn my head, knowing, if I did, his lips would be mere inches from mine.
"You flooded it," he says. The accusation snaps me right out of whatever I was feeling. Indignation replaces lust.
"I did not flood it."
"You did." His voice is maddeningly calm. "You panicked and pumped the pedal."
Gritting my teeth to hide my sheer irritation with this man, I finally cough out, "I don't panic." The lie comes out too quickly, too defensive.
Of course I panicked.
I panic every morning when I wonder if today will be the day something breaks that I can't afford to fix. I panic every night when I calculate and recalculate the numbers, trying to make the math work. But admitting that to Brett Elliot feels like handing him ammunition I can't spare.
He glances at me, eyes sharp behind his glasses. "Everyone panics. The difference is how they handle it."
The words land with an irritating mix of insult and truth. I shove them aside, shoving him aside too. "Fine. If you're so smart, fix it."
