Page 11 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
Even relaxed, he radiates that quiet confidence that seems to be his default setting. The storm doesn't faze him, the primitive conditions don't make him complain. He just adapts, settles in, makes himself comfortable like this is exactly where he planned to be tonight.
"So," he says after a stretch of silence. "Is this a common occurrence? Storms like this?"
"Every fall we get a couple," I reply. "Usually knocks out power at least once. Orchard's old wiring can't keep up."
"Do you ever get nervous?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness. Most people would dance around the topic, make small talk about weather patterns or power company incompetence. But Brett just asks what he wants to know, confident that I'll answer honestly.
I huff. "About what? A little thunder? Please."
He studies me, unreadable. "You don't scare easily."
"Not true." The words slip out before I can stop them. "I just don't let people see it."
The admission hangs between us, more intimate than I intended. Something about the storm, the isolation, the way he's looking at me with those perceptive eyes, strips away my usual defenses, making me say things I normally keep locked away.
His gaze sharpens, like he's cataloging the admission. I curse myself silently. I’ve said too much. He won’t let it go. I know he won’t. Before he can say more, my phone buzzes.
Elizabeth: Ugh it is storming here too. But I'm distracted because CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Christine: The way he just takes her wrist and walks her out of the store. Firm but gentle.
Janelle: Monica you have to read this tonight. No excuses. We need to TALK about the book and we are waiting for you to catch up.
The timing is perfect and terrible. Here I am, trapped in a romantic storm scenario with a man who embodies every quality the book club fantasizes about, and they're texting me about wrist-taking and Daddy energy. If they only knew how close to their fiction my reality has become. My kindle is actually in thebarn. I glance over to it. It’s next to Brett. Of course it is. Of fucking course.
I snort-laugh.
Brett tilts his head. "What?"
"Nothing," I say quickly, stuffing the phone under my blanket.
His brows lift. He doesn't press, but I feel the weight of his curiosity like a hand on my skin. He doesn’t look away, but stares me down, waiting for me to break. The intensity of his attention should make me uncomfortable, but instead it makes me hyperaware of every movement, every breath. It's like being studied by someone who finds you genuinely interesting, someone who's patient enough to wait for answers rather than demanding them.
Finally, I look away. When the storm doesn’t seem to be letting up, I get up and head over to the closet. In the back is a chest that has bedding in it. I’ve slept in this barn many times over the years. Sometimes, from pure exhaustion and others because I wanted to. I pull out the blankets and the sleeping bag. We make small beds on opposite sides of the barn and say our goodnights.
Hours drag. The rain doesn't let up, and neither of us goes to bed. I pace the barn, restless energy thrumming through me.
The confined space amplifies everything, the sound of rain on the roof, the crackle of the fire, the quiet rhythm of Brett's breathing from across the barn. I'm used to solitude, used to having space to spread out and process the day's frustrations. But tonight, every emotion feels magnified by his presence.
At one point, a gust slams the shutters open, wind howling through. I shriek, just a little, more out of surprise than fear, and Brett is on his feet instantly.
"Stay back," he says, striding to the window with sure, steady movements. He slams the shutters closed, bracing them with a spare beam.
His response is immediate and competent, no hesitation, no asking for direction. He just sees a problem and fixes it, his body moving with the kind of controlled grace that makes me think he's dealt with worse than wayward shutters. I realize how little I know about this man. He can fix a tractor. He’s strong and protective. And the commanding tone in his voice when he told me to stay back sends an unwelcome thrill through me.
When he turns, rainwater running down his face, his voice carries that quiet authority again. "It's secure."
I hate it. I hate the way he’s looking at me. I hate the way he’s taken charge of the situation. I hate the way my body responds to him.
And, I hate how good it feels to have someone else take charge, even for something as simple as a broken shutter.
I've been handling everything alone for so long that the relief of having someone competent step in is almost overwhelming. It's dangerous territory, this temptation to lean on his strength.
"Thanks," I mutter, wrapping the blanket tighter. "I could've done that."
He steps closer, lowering his tone. "You don't have to when I’m here."
