Page 6 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
I close my eyes and groan. "Do you see what you've done?"
"I?" Brett's voice is pure indignation. "You were the one who?—"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence." I jab a finger at him.
The accusation in his tone breaks whatever spell his commanding voice had cast over me. How dare he blame me for this disaster when he's the one who distracted me with thatauthoritative growl? When he's the one whose presence has been throwing off my carefully maintained equilibrium since the moment he walked into my orchard?
For a second, his lips twitch, and I realize he's fighting a smile.
A smile.
"You're impossible," I mutter, scooping up a bruised apple.
"And you're infuriating," he counters, straightening to his full height. His shirt clings damply to his chest, cider soaking through the fabric.
The wet fabric reveals more than it conceals, outlining the solid breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength of his torso. This is not the soft physique of a man who spends all his time hunched over books and microscopes. This is the body of someone who hikes through forests and climbs mountains in pursuit of his research, someone who's comfortable with physical challenges even if apple orchards aren't his natural habitat. I’d judged him so incredibly wrong.
And I shouldn't notice. I really, really shouldn't. But my gaze lingers anyway.
When the last busload of kids finally pulls away, the orchard exhales into quiet. The sun dips low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and rose, and the smell of cinnamon sugar still hangs in the air.
This is my favorite time of day, when the chaos settles and the orchard returns to itself. The golden hour light makes everything look like a painting, all warm honey and deep shadows. It's the kind of lighting that makes even the most mundane moments feel romantic, the kind that would make a photographer weep with joy. Golden hour.
We close every weeknight at six but stay open late on Friday and Saturday for hayrides and nighttime bonfires. I’m grateful it’s Thursday. I collapse onto a hay bale, exhausted, my musclesaching in ways I don't want to think about. Brett drops down beside me, less gracefully, mud streaked across his khakis, straw tangled in his hair.
He looks completely wrecked. His perfect hair is mussed, his pristine clothes splattered with mud and cider, his glasses slightly askew. But somehow, this disheveled version is infinitely more appealing than the polished professor who walked into my orchard this morning. There's something human about him now, something real and approachable.
"You survived," I say, handing him a donut from the stash I hid earlier.
"Barely." He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, then nods. "This is excellent."
"Family recipe." I lean back, stretching. "You're welcome."
For a long moment, we just sit in companionable silence. The orchard glows in the fading light, the rows of trees heavy with fruit, the barn lanterns flickering on one by one.
There's something peaceful about this moment, something that feels almost domestic. This is how I imagine spending my evenings, sitting together with my man in comfortable quiet, sharing donuts and watching the sun set over the apple trees. It's a dangerous thought, the kind that makes me wonder what it would be like to have someone to share this with every day.
Then my phone buzzes.
Emily: Ok ladies. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. Kitchen counter scene. Dead. I am dead.
Elizabeth: Told you. The spatula would be used again.
Janelle: My husband just asked why I was blushing while stirring soup. He doesn't need to know.
Me: Still at work. Will catch up tonight. Maybe. If I don't collapse.
I smother a laugh.
The timing couldn't be worse or better, depending on your perspective. Here I am, sitting in the romantic golden hour light with a man who's just spent the day proving he's stronger and more capable than his scholarly appearance suggests, and my phone is lighting up with messages about kitchen counters and culinary implements used for decidedly non-culinary purposes. If the girls could see me now, they'd never let me hear the end of it.
"What's funny?" Brett asks.
"Nothing," I say too quickly.
His gaze sharpens. He doesn't push, but the weight of his attention lingers.
Those sharp eyes don't miss much. He's cataloging my reactions the same way he probably catalogs plant specimens, noting patterns, filing away details for future reference. It should make me self-conscious, but instead it makes me hyperaware of every movement, every expression.
