Page 10 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
My throat goes dry. Is he offering? Leaning on someone means trusting them, and trust means vulnerability, and vulnerability is a luxury I've never been able to afford.
"Not on you," I whisper.
His eyes glint in the firelight. "We'll see."
The words shouldn't send heat pooling low in my stomach. They shouldn't make me want to step closer, to test the quiet authority threaded through his tone.
But they do.
And that scares me more than anything.
CHAPTER 5
By the time the last family leaves for the evening, the orchard feels bone tired. Lanterns flicker low across the barn, the donut fryer hisses its final breath, and the hired teens are busy at work picking up trash that is left behind and straightening tables. Within twenty minutes, the last garbage bag is taken to the oversized dumpster out behind the barn– where no one can see –, and the last of the employees has driven off.
There's something peaceful about this transition from chaos to quiet, from the bright energy of families enjoying their day to the softer rhythm of closing up. It's my favorite time, when the orchard returns to itself and I can finally breathe without performing the role of cheerful hostess. But tonight, the usual comfort is edged with awareness of Brett's presence, the way he moves through the space like he belongs here. Why is he still here? Why hasn’t he gone?
I lock the front gate, stretching my aching back, already dreaming of a hot shower and solitude. I turn and face my small house on the far end of the property. A few minutes’ walk and I’ll be home. That's when the sky cracks open.
The first flash of lightning cuts jagged across the horizon. Seconds later, thunder rolls through the valley like a drumbeat.
"Perfect," I mutter, tugging my hood over my head.
Fall storms in apple country are legendary. They come on fiercely, suddenly, and are capable of turning roads into rivers in a matter of minutes. I've weathered dozens of them over the years, but there's something about this one that feels different. Maybe it's the electric tension in the air, or maybe it's the fact that I'm not facing it alone tonight.
Behind me, Brett emerges from the barn, hair mussed, shirt streaked with cider stains. "That's not good."
"No kidding, professor." I jab my thumb toward his truck parked by the edge of the gravel lot. "You better get moving before the road floods."
"I already tried." His mouth tightens. "Truck won't start."
Of course it won't. Because the universe has a sense of humor, and apparently tonight's joke is trapping me with the one man who makes me question every carefully maintained boundary I've built around my heart.
I blink. "What do you mean it won't start?"
"I mean," he says evenly, "the engine is dead. Starter's shot."
As if on cue, rain sheets down in buckets, drenching us both within seconds.
I throw my hands in the air. "Of course it is. Because why wouldn't the universe trap me here with you tonight?"
The words come out more revealing than I intended, but the storm swallows them before I can take them back. Being trapped with Brett Elliot for an entire night feels dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with weather and everything to do with the way he's been looking at me, the way my body responds to his quiet commands.
His lips twitch, just barely. "You make it sound like a punishment."
I glare. "You snore, I'm kicking you back out into the storm."
The threat is empty, and we both know it. Despite my protests, despite the way he infuriates me with his certainty and his clipboard and his ability to see straight through my defenses, I wouldn't actually send him out into this weather. The admission, even to myself, feels like surrender.
“I don’t think we can make it safely across the orchard to my house. I have blankets and bedding in the barn.” We make it into the barn just in time. Rain pelts the tin roof, thunder shakes the rafters, and wind whistles through the cracks. The old wood stove glows faintly in the corner, throwing shadows across the walls.
The barn transforms in the storm, becoming something intimate and sheltered. The space that felt vast during the day now feels cozy, almost romantic with the firelight dancing across the rough wooden walls. It's the kind of setting that belongs in the novels my book club devours. It’s rustic, atmospheric, and perfect for a heroine to discover exactly how she feels about the brooding hero. But not me. I’m not a heroine and Brett? Well, he’s far from a brooding hero.
I toss him a blanket from storage.
He catches it neatly. "Thanks."
We settle on opposite hay bales, the distance between us more intentional. I hug my knees, listening to the storm, trying not to notice the way his long frame sprawls across the bale.
