Page 5 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
Today, the bedlam has turned into chaos. The hayrides are running late, the cider press is groaning like it's about to give up, and a toddler just stuck his entire head inside one of our specially carved pumpkins. One I paid to have carved just right. His mom snapped a picture before rescuing him, because of course she did. And, in pulling his head out, the entire design collapsed. Forty dollars. It cost forty dollars to have it carvedintricately and took less than two minutes for an unsupervised child to ruin it.
In the middle of it all, Brett Elliot is standing stiff as a scarecrow, trying to direct the crowd of tourists with his clipboard like it's a traffic baton. I bite back a laugh. He couldn’t look more out of place if he tried.
Watching him attempt to manage the cheerful chaos of families on a day out is like watching someone try to organize a tornado. His precise, academic mind clearly expects people to follow logical patterns, to queue up in orderly lines and wait for proper instruction. Instead, he's faced with the beautiful anarchy of children hopped up on cider donuts and parents trying to capture the perfect fall photo at one of our many, strategically placed, photo ops.
"You can't just wave them into the orchard," I hiss, jogging over. "They'll strip the trees bare if you don't give them bags."
His jaw tightens. "I told them to wait."
"Yeah, but you told them in your professor's voice. Nobody listens to the professor's voice unless there's a quiz." I shove a stack of bags into his hands. "Here. Pass them out. Make sure you tell them they can only fill one bag a person. And smile. You look like you're about to take away their recess."
The metaphor is more accurate than I intended. Everything about his posture screams "stern authority figure" from the rigid set of his shoulders to the way he holds himself apart from the crowd, even the precise way he grips that damn clipboard. He's probably the type of professor who makes students raise their hands before speaking and deducts points for tardiness.
He glares at me, but to his credit, he takes the bags and starts distributing them. Awkwardly. Like each one might explode.
I should be irritated. Really, I should. Instead, I can't stop laughing.
There's something endearing about watching this controlled, competent man completely out of his element. He approaches each family like they're a new species to be studied while carefully maintaining distance. There’s an obvious relief when he can retreat back to his clipboard. Watching him is like watching a nature documentary where the scientist becomes the subject.
"You're enjoying this too much," he mutters as I pass by with another crate of apples.
"Watching you flail? Absolutely." I shoot him a grin. "Consider it payback for lecturing my trees in Latin yesterday."
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "barbarian."
The insult should sting, but instead it makes me want to laugh even harder. Barbarian. Like I'm some sort of uncultured savage just because I don't speak dead languages to my fruit trees. The academic arrogance is almost charming in its complete disconnect from reality and one thing I’ve observed? Brett is completely disconnected from reality.
By the time the first hayride lurches back toward the barn, chaos has multiplied. Half the kids are sugared up on donuts, two goats are being chased by employees– having escaped the petting zoo– and the cider press, my grandfather's pride and joy, is leaking. The press is the heart of our operation, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship that's been making cider for three generations. When it works, it's poetry in motion. Our apples transform into liquid gold through the marriage of tradition and physics. We make everything onsite. Donuts. Cider. Slushies. Even hard cider. But, when it doesn't work, it's a sticky, expensive disaster that can shut down half our sales for the day.
"Grab that end," I bark at Brett, pointing to the heavy wooden lid that keeps the press in place. Sticky juice is spillingonto the floor, and we've got a line of customers tapping their toes.
Brett crouches beside me without hesitation. Together, we lift the lid, cider splattering our arms. His hand brushes mine as we adjust the angle, and the contact is brief, fleeting, but enough to send a jolt of electricity racing through me.
His hands are stronger than I expected, the grip sure and steady despite the slippery conditions. There's something surprisingly intimate about working together like this, our bodies moving in sync as we wrestle with the heavy machinery. When our fingers touch, I feel that spark for a third time, the same electric awareness that hit me during our handshake, but stronger now, more insistent. Could I be attracted, at least sexually, to this man?
Focus, Monica.
"Hold it steady," I instruct.
“I’ve got it. Trust me.” Something about the tone makes my breath catch. It's not harsh, not even unfriendly, just absolute, quiet authority.
I startle for a second and start to slip, the juice making a sloshy mess under my feet. He holds on to the edge, while I adjust my grip.
"Don't move until I say." The command hits me like a physical force, stopping my breath in my throat. It's not the tone he used with the tourists or even the voice he used during our negotiations. This is something deeper, more primal. It’s the voice of a man who's used to being obeyed. And God help me, my body wants to obey.
This is my orchard. My press. Why is he giving the commands here? I should be the one telling him what to do! But, against all common sense, my body listens to him. Everything in me goes still, not just my hands but something deeper, some part of me that recognizes the command in his voice and wantsto submit to it. It's the same feeling I get when I read certain discipline scenes in our book club selections, that breathless anticipation of surrender that I've never experienced in real life. The wooden lid is placed perfectly back on top of the press. We fixed it. As we stand there, the world narrows to the heat of him beside me. I try to slowly back away from him. To move away from the connection that I’m feeling all while wondering if he’s feeling it too. I take one step back.
Then the crate shifts, the weight tips, and?—
Crash.
The sound of thirty pounds of apples hitting the floor is like a gunshot in the barn, shattering the spell that had wrapped around us. Reality comes flooding back to me. The waiting customers, the sticky mess, the fact that I'm standing here fantasizing about a near-stranger's voice when I should be running my business. Apples scatter across the floor in every direction, rolling under tables, bouncing against boots.
"Oh for the love of—" I shove sticky hair out of my face. "Great. Just great."
Around us, kids dive after the apples like it's a carnival game. Parents laugh. Someone claps.
Of course they're entertained. To them, this is all part of the authentic orchard experience. The charming chaos, the rustic atmosphere, the kind of mishap that will make for a great story at dinner parties. They have no idea that the man standing beside me just made my pulse forget how to behave.
