Page 18 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
He hovers like a storm cloud, tall and unreadable behind his glasses. He lifts crates I'm perfectly capable of carrying, steadies ladders I climb and fixes me with that infuriatingly steady look whenever I push too hard. I feel the look. The warning. I hear the way his tone has gotten more and more sharp as the day goes on.
Every intervention feels deliberate, calculated and not just helpful, but corrective. The memory of last night hangs between us, unspoken but unmistakable. Right now, he's watching me wrestle with a thirty-pound box of bruised apples bound for cider pressing.
"Put it down," he orders, his voice low but firm.
The command hits me like déjà vu, carrying the same authority as last night when he told me to say what I was reading. The same tone that made my body obey before my mind could protest.
"I've got it," I grit out, shifting the weight against my hip.
"Monica." The way he says my name stops me cold. It’s a command and warning all rolled into one. "Put. It. Down."
My name in his mouth has become a weapon, deployed with surgical precision whenever he wants my attention. And God help me, it works every time, cutting through my defenses like they're made of paper.
I freeze. My pride screams to keep going, but my body obeys him before my brain does. The crate thuds onto the table, and my arms shake with the aftershock.
I spin on him, heat rising in my cheeks. "I don't need you to babysit me!"
His eyes narrow. "You call this behavior what? Independence? Running yourself into the ground until you collapse?"
Independence. The word stings because it hits too close to the truth I've been avoiding. He’s right. This isn't independence. It's nothing more than self-destruction dressed up as determination. And we both know it.
"I'm not?—"
The world tilts. For one terrifying second, black edges my vision.
Strong hands catch me before I fall. His hands are exactly where they need to be, exactly when they need to be there, like he's been anticipating this moment. The competence of his response, no panic, no hesitation, just immediate action, reminds me why the heroines in my books are always falling for men like this.
"Damn it," Brett mutters, his voice rough with something that sounds a lot like fear. He pulls me behind the stand, away from the customers, and presses a bottle of water into my hand. "Drink."
"I don't?—"
"Now." The command slices through my protest.
There's no room for argument in his tone, no space for negotiation. Just the absolute expectation that I will obey, backed by the kind of quiet authority that makes compliance feel natural rather than forced.
I take a drink.
“The entire bottle, Monica.”
And damn if I don’t bring the bottle back to my lips and tilt it backwards. Because I can't, not. Because my throat is dry, my head is spinning, and the steel in his tone won't allow an argument. When the bottle is empty, he takes it back, sets it aside, and steps closer. Too close.
Close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with apple cider. Close enough to see the concern in his eyes beneath the authority, the care that drives his need to control my self-destructive tendencies.
His eyes pin mine, dark and unwavering. "You're done for today."
I gape. "The hell I am."
"Yes. You are." His voice softens, but the edge is still there. "You've been running on stubbornness and caffeine for days. You’re exhausted. There’s more than enough help here to finish the day. This ends now."
Stubbornness. Like I'm a misbehaving child who needs correction rather than a grown woman making her own choices. The characterization should infuriate me. Instead, it makes me want to prove him wrong and submit to his judgment all in thesame breath. Anger flares. Anger at him, at myself, at the truth in his words.
"You don't get to decide that."
His expression doesn't change, but his hand closes around my wrist, firm and grounding. "You're right. You get to decide." He pauses, voice dropping lower. "So decide. Do you want to keep burning yourself out until your orchard has nothing left of you? Or do you want to let someone take care of you for once?"
The choice he's offering isn't really a choice at all. It's an invitation to surrender disguised as an ultimatum.
The words cut deep. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
