Page 14 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
With those hands that can fix tractors and secure shutters and steady ladders and handle each piece of fruit with surprising delicacy. It makes me wonder how those same hands would touch me. Would it be with the same careful attention, the same gentle precision.? Or firmer, like he held the ladder?
I shake myself. He's still an intrusion. Still a problem I didn't ask for.
"Why do apples and tree botany matter so much to you?" I blurt finally, needing a distraction. I wonder what makes him tick. How did he become a scientist who studied plants?
He pauses, turning one slowly in his palm. "Because my mother loved them."
The shift in his voice stops me cold. I wasn’t expecting that answer. With all the academic answers he could give, this answer is unexpected. I can hear the emotion in his tone. It’s raw and honest. This isn't the professor talking, this is just a man remembering someone important.
"She was a botanist too," he continues. "She used to tell me stories about an apple tree variety she read about in journals but never got to see. The flavor was described as both sharp and sweet. Complex. She thought it was a metaphor for life. She’d only had it once. She and my father had honeymooned here,in Colorado. There was a farmer’s market not far from here. In one stall, she’d bought the apples, in another some farm fresh smoked cheese. Together, she’d had the best bit of food she’d ever eaten. She spoke of this often. She never found the apple again. When she’d researched it, she found it came from here. From your orchard. An accidental cross of two trees. She was still looking for it when she passed away." He huffs a breath, lips twisting. "I guess I inherited the obsession."
Sharp and sweet. Complex. The description could apply to more than just apples, and something in his tone suggests he knows it. There's a poetry to his mother's interpretation that explains where Brett gets his depth, his ability to see meaning in the mundane.
I swallow hard. "She's gone?"
"Yes." A single syllable, heavy with unspoken weight. The grief in that one word is carefully contained but unmistakable. It explains so much about him and why he is here. It speaks of the precision, the need to honor his mother's memory through his work, the way he approaches everything with such serious intensity. This isn’t just about a tree but about the connection he had with his mother. I know exactly how he feels. It’s why after I lost my mother to breast cancer, I stepped up. I couldn’t let the orchard fall. Every day I am here, I am closer to my mother.
I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. I just pick through the apples beside him, the silence between us thicker but somehow gentler than before. When I finally glance up, he's watching me, not with that scientist's scrutiny, but with something softer. Something that makes my chest ache.
The look is grateful, I realize. Grateful that I didn't try to fill the silence with platitudes or empty sympathy. That I just let his grief exist without trying to fix it or diminish it. It's the first time I've seen him truly vulnerable, and it makes me want to offer comfort I'm not sure I know how to give.
By evening, we're both exhausted. The sun drops low, staining the orchard in hues of copper and fire. I wipe sweat from my forehead, leaning against a fence.
"You work too hard," Brett says beside me.
"Occupational hazard."
"No." He shakes his head. "It's a choice. You push yourself past the point of sense."
"Someone has to keep this place running." The defensiveness in my voice reveals more than I intend. Because he's right, it is a choice. I could hire more help, could delegate responsibilities, could trust others to care about this place the way I do. But letting go of control means risking disappointment, and I've had enough of that to last a lifetime.
He turns fully toward me, eyes sharp. "And who keeps you running?"
The question steals my breath.
No one has ever asked me that before. Everyone assumes I'm self-sufficient, that I don't need the same care and attention I give to everything else. But Brett sees through that illusion to the woman underneath who's just as fragile as anyone else.
"I don't need?—"
"Yes, you do." His voice softens, but the command is still there. "You need rest. You need balance. You need someone to make you stop before you burn yourself out."
"Like you?" I challenge, though my voice lacks heat.
"Like me." His certainty is maddening. Comforting. Dangerous. The way he says it, so calm, so sure, makes it sound like an inevitability rather than a possibility. Like he's already decided that taking care of me is his job, and he's just waiting for me to catch up to the idea.
The silence stretches, full of tension, full of things I'm not ready to admit. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I know who it is before I even look at it and I’m grateful for whatever mentalconnection I have with these girls that tell them exactly when to start chatting.
Christine: Sooo Monica… you there? Or have you run off with the professor? Did he steal your virtue?
Maybe I shouldn’t have told them about Brett or being stuck in a barn with him during the storm. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned him at all. I blame exhaustion.
Elizabeth: Bet she's pretending to hate him while secretly wanting him to take control and spank her.
Me: You're both insane. I have zero time to run away and absolutely no virtue left to steal.
Elizabeth's message hits way too close to home, making me flush with embarrassment and awareness. Because the truth is, I am pretending to hate him while secretly fascinated by his quiet dominance. And the spanking comment... well. That's exactly the kind of scenario that features prominently in our book club selections. Am I curious about whether or not he has it in him? Especially after that not so subtly veiled comment he made earlier? Maybe.
I tuck the phone away quickly, cheeks hot.
