Page 8 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
I expect him to fumble, to prove that all his academic knowledge means nothing when faced with real machinery. I expect him to suggest calling a mechanic or buying a new tractor. What I don’t expect is what he does instead. He moves with practiced efficiency, hands sure and steady as he adjusts settings I didn't even know existed on a machine I’ve owned for years.
To my horror, he gets it to work. Two turns of the wrench, a sharp pump, and the engine roars back to life. How? When did he learn? Have I misjudged him? I thought he was merely an academic who didn’t know how to get his hands dirty. There is much more to this man than meets the eye. Not for the first time, I am reminded of Superman. Nerdy during the day, sexy as hell as he flies through the air.
The hayride crowd cheering pulls me from my thoughts. I’m angry. Why? Why am I irritated that the Perfect Professor man is good at fixing things? Why am I not simply grateful that he fixed the tractor? Is it because I don’t need rescuing? Is it because I don’t want to be rescued?
I scowl. "Congratulations. You're officially smarter than my tractor."
He smiles, small but smug. "I'll add it to my resume."
The satisfaction in his voice makes me want to throw something at him. Or maybe kiss him. The second impulse is so unexpected and unwelcome that I nearly fall off the tractor seat. What is wrong with me? This is exactly the kind of thinking that gets romance heroines into trouble. I can’t go mistaking competence for compatibility, authority for affection.Come on, girl. Get your head on straight.
The day only gets worse.
A delivery truck drops two pallets of cider jugs in the wrong spot, blocking the barn doors. The hay bales collapse while children are climbing all over them, sending screaming children tumbling into a pile of straw. Luckily, there were no injuries, and the children seemed to genuinely enjoy falling into large piles of hay. And when I try to reset the corn maze signs, I find Brett already there, rearranging the map.
Each crisis feels amplified by his presence, every mistake magnified under his watchful gaze. It's like being observed by a particularly thorough scientist, which, I suppose, is exactly what's happening. Except, he doesn’t want to study me. I’m not data to be cataloged. I would have already given him permission to go look at what he wanted, but I need to go with him. I can’t have him out there by himself. God, no. He needed an escort, and I don’t have the time right now.
"What are you doing?" I demand.
He doesn't even look up. "Your signs were backwards."
"They were not backwards."
"They were." He points, precise. "East is not west."
The certainty in his voice, the absolute confidence that he's right and I'm wrong, sets my teeth on edge. How dare he waltz into my maze, my orchard, my life, and start rearranging things like he has some divine right to improvement?
I throw my hands up. "It doesn't matter! It's a corn maze, not a geography exam."
"People need clear direction." His tone sharpens, that quiet command slipping through again. "Confusion breeds chaos."
And there it is again, that tone that makes my spine straighten involuntarily, that makes some primitive part of my brain want to pay attention and obey. It's the voice of someone accustomed to being listened to, someone who expects his guidance to be followed without question.
Something in me bristles. "You think I don't know how to run my own orchard?"
His gaze meets mine, steadily. "I think you're stretched too thin."
The words hit like a physical blow, landing in that tender place where my fears live. Because he's right, and his rightness makes everything worse. I am stretched too thin. I am drowning in responsibilities and failing to keep up with the demands of harvest season. But hearing it from him in the calm, composed, completely outside my struggle way, just feels like… like… judgement. And why do I care? Why do his words hurt the way they do?
It dawns on me. His words hit harder than I want them to. Because they're true. I try to think of a comeback, something witty. Instead, I stand there staring blankly at him. My phone buzzes, saving me.
Christine: Chapter fifteen aftermath. My god. The tenderness.
Elizabeth: But the control. Sex. Spanking. The aftercare…
Janelle: Monica, if you don't read this tonight, we're staging an intervention.
The messages are a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge of an argument I'm not sure I want to have. The girls have no ideahow perfectly timed their interruption is, how desperately I need the reminder that there's a world beyond this orchard, beyond Brett Elliot and his infuriating observations. As I finish reading through the texts, I choke back a laugh, shoving the phone deep in my pocket before Brett can see.
"Something funny?" he asks.
"Nope."
He studies me too long, like he can see through my skin. Then he simply says, "You're avoiding something. Hiding something."
The accuracy of his observation makes my pulse spike. How does he do that? How does he see past every defense I've carefully constructed, every deflection I've perfected? It's like being examined under a microscope, except the microscope has dark brown eyes and speaks in that maddening tone of quiet authority.
My temper snaps. "I'm avoiding you," I snap. "You waltz in here with your clipboard and your smug little smile, telling me how to run everything like you know better?—"
