Page 15 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
Brett's watching again. Always watching. "Everything okay?"
"Yes. It’s… nothing. Just some friends.”
“Nothing that makes you blush?”
“Nothing you need to worry about."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "We'll see."
And for the first time, I realize he might actually mean it. That he's planning to make my secrets his business, whether Iwant him to or not. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends a thrill of anticipation spiraling through my chest. The promise in his voice is unmistakable. He's not planning on going anywhere, not backing down from whatever this is building between us. And despite every rational thought screaming that I should maintain my boundaries, keep him at arm's length, protect the careful control I've built around my life, part of me wants to see what happens next.
I watch him walk off and I head back inside the barn. My e-reader is in there and right now; I need to catch up on my book. I need something else to think about besides the sexy professor who is driving me nuts.
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
It's late. Too late. The orchard sleeps, quiet except for the crickets and the rustle of leaves. The lanterns along the barn cast golden pools of light on the gravel path, and the air smells of apples, hay, and the faint musk of animals bedded down for the night. I should be in bed. God knows I need sleep. But instead, I curl into a hay bale fortress in the back of the barn, Kindle in hand, heart thudding as I swipe to the next page.
The girls weren't kidding about chapter seventeen. The tension between the hero and heroine has been building for chapters, and now, finally, he's done waiting for her to admit what she wants. The scene is everything the Naughty Girls Book Club lives for: authority and tenderness, control and care, the perfect balance of firm guidance and gentle affection.
The heroine is bent over a kitchen counter, skirt pushed up, panties tugged down, while her stern-but-loving Daddy lectures her about honesty. My cheeks burn, even though I'm alone.
Except suddenly, I'm not.
The realization hits me like a cold splash of water, making me jolt so hard I nearly drop the Kindle. Of all the times for someone to walk into the barn, of all the people who could have caught me reading smut in a hay pile like some sort of romance novel cliché—it had to be him. I’d forgotten that he’d volunteered to stay late tonight; to help my brother-in-law set up the orchard for a retirement brunch we were hosting in the morning. Special events were my sister’s thing. I can barely keep up with the day-to-day operations.
Boots scuff across the floor. Then Brett's voice, low and dry: "You know most people read in bed, not in drafty barns."
My pulse rockets. "I—couldn't sleep," I stammer, sitting straighter. Which is completely untrue. I never went to bed. Never made it back to the house. The lie comes out thin and unconvincing, probably because my voice is still breathless from the scene I was just reading.
Great.
Now I sound like I was doing something far more scandalous than reading romance novels. Although, given the content of what I was reading, maybe the distinction isn't as clear as I'd like.
"Mm-hm." His gaze flicks to the device I'm holding in a death grip. "What's got you so jumpy? Smut?"
My jaw drops. "Excuse me?"
"Romance, then," he amends smoothly, moving closer. The firelight catches on his glasses, making his eyes unreadable. "Though from the look on your face, I'm guessing, not the Hallmark Channel kind."
How does he do that? How does he see straight through every defense I try to put up? It's like he has some sort of radar for the things I want to keep hidden, the vulnerabilities I've spent years learning to mask. How does he read my mind? Maybe he really is Superman. For a split second, I consider thepossibility. Superman doesn’t read minds though, that’s not his super power, right? I can’t remember.
“So, what are you reading?” He asks.
"I—It's none of your business. I’m none of your business." I quickly close the lid of my e-reader.
"On the contrary." He crouches in front of me, reaching with unhurried ease. Before I can react, he plucks the Kindle from my hands.
The movement is so smooth, so confident, that I don't even think to resist until it's too late. And there's something about the casual authority in the gesture, the way he simply takes what he wants to examine, that sends an unwelcome thrill through me.
"Brett!" I lunge, but he's already scanning the open page. His brows lift, and his mouth curves into a slow, wicked smile.
"Well, well. Seems our orchardist has interesting tastes."
The mortification is complete and total. Not only has he caught me reading in the barn like some sort of romance novel heroine, but he's actually reading the content. The very explicit, very detailed content about Daddy Doms and kitchen counters and exactly the sort of dynamic that I've been trying not to think about every time he uses that commanding tone with me.
Heat surges through me, half fury, half mortification. "Give it back!" I stand up and try to grab it back.
