Page 26 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
By the time I reach the pie contest table, Brett is deep in conversation with three of our most competitive bakers, taking notes on flavor profiles and crust techniques with the same scientific rigor he once applied to botanical research. The sight makes me ridiculously happy. This brilliant man applying his considerable intellect to the things that matter to my community, treating our traditions with the respect they deserve.
Later, when the last of the visitors are gone and the cider kegs have been rolled back into the barn, I find him leaning against the old tractor. His hair's mussed, his shirt rumpled, and his smile just for me.
"Tired?" he asks.
"Exhausted." I sink onto the hay bale beside him. "But happy."
"Good." He slides an arm around my shoulders, tugging me close. "That's all I want. For you to be happy."
The simple sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. After months of being told what I should want, what I should do, how I should run my orchard, here's a man whose only agenda is my happiness. It's such a foreign concept that I almost don't know how to process it.
I tip my head against him, inhaling the mix of apples and soap and Brett. "I wasn't sure I'd ever let myself be."
He presses a kiss to my temple. "You deserve more than just surviving, Monica. You deserve joy."
Joy. Such a simple word, but it encompasses everything I've been afraid to want. Not just contentment or satisfaction, but actual joy, the kind that bubbles up from deep inside and spills over into every corner of your life. The kind I feel when I watch him explain cider pressing to children, when he holds my hand during the hayride, when he looks at me like I'm the most precious thing in his world.
The words sink deep, and I blink hard against the sting in my eyes. "You're bossy, you know that?"
His chuckle rumbles against me. "And you're mouthy. Guess that's why we work."
We work. Such a casual phrase for something so profound. But he's right. We do work, in ways I never expected. His need for structure balanced by my spontaneity, his careful precision complemented by my instinctive warmth, his quiet authority meeting my stubborn independence and somehow creating harmony instead of conflict.
Silence stretches, comfortable now, filled with cricket song and the faint rustle of leaves.
Then he clears his throat. "I, uh… I talked to Jeannie about the cottage."
I lift my head. "The one at the edge of the orchard?"
"Yeah. She said it's been empty too long, and it needs someone who'll keep the pipes from freezing." He shifts, nervous in a way I rarely see. "I was thinking… maybe that someone could be me."
The cottage has been empty since my great-aunt passed away five years ago. It’s a sweet little two-bedroom with a wraparound porch and a garden that's gone wild with neglect. I've always meant to fix it up, to make it livable again, but somehow there's never been time. Now, suddenly, I can picture it perfectly: Brett on the porch in the mornings with his coffee and his research notes, the garden restored to its former glory, a real home instead of just a place to sleep.
My breath catches. "You want to live here?"
"I want to live with you." His gaze is steady now, all nerves gone. "I want to wake up to the smell of apples and hear you cursing tractors and spend nights reminding you to stop working past midnight. I want to chase goats around the orchard and make love to you in the barn. I want to build something here, Monica. With you." He's talking about a life, a future, a partnership that goes beyond the passion we've discovered and into something deeper, more lasting. He's talking about roots and permanence and all the things I thought I'd have to choose between.
"The cottage would need work," I say, practical even in the face of everything I've been hoping to hear. "New roof, updated plumbing, probably rewiring the whole electrical system."
His smile is soft, understanding. "I'm good with my hands. And I learn fast."
"You'd have to deal with the orchard politics. Town council meetings. Zoning disputes with the county. All the drama that goes with owning a tourist location."
"I've handled academic politics. How much worse could small-town politics be?"
I laugh despite myself. "You have no idea."
"Then you'll have to teach me." He reaches for my hand, entwining our fingers. "Teach me everything. The way you read the weather, how to know when the apples are ready, how to be the kind of partner you deserve."
"There's one condition," I add, trying to maintain some semblance of my usual practical nature even as my heart soars. "You have to learn to make Aunt Jeannie's apple butter recipe. It's a family tradition."
"Deal," he agrees without hesitation. "Though I reserve the right to take scientific notes on the process."
"Wouldn't expect anything less from my favorite botanist."
"Your only botanist," he corrects.
"My only anything," I reply, and the truth of it settles over us both like a blessing.
