CHAPTER THREE
Trent
The irrigation problem was a complete disaster, and having Abby Foster helping was making everything ten times worse. Why? Because she was distracting as hell.
Three main lines had burst overnight, flooding half the north grove and leaving two dozen trees sitting in muddy water that would rot their roots if I didn’t get it fixed fast. I’d been dealing with this kind of crisis for years, but her beside me in the middle of the mess was making it hard to concentrate.
She was knee-deep in mud, her jeans soaked through and her dark hair escaping from the ponytail she’d put it in. She looked beautiful. Determined and fierce and completely out of her element but refusing to back down.
“Hand me that wrench,” I said, pointing to the toolbox I’d sit down on dry land. She picked her way carefully through the mud, and I held my breath waiting to see if she’d fall. Instead, she made it there and back without incident. “See? I can be helpful.”
“Don’t get cocky. The day is young.” Her grin hit me harder than it should have.
She passed it over, her fingers brushing mine in the process, and I felt that same jolt of electricity I’d been trying to ignore all morning.
Ever since I’d caught her falling off that ladder, ever since I’d held her against my chest and felt how perfectly she fit in my arms, I’d been fighting the urge to touch her again.
It was dangerous territory. I’d learned the hard way that mixing business with pleasure was a recipe for disaster. But looking at Abby—covered in mud and completely focused on helping me solve a problem that had nothing to do with her—was making me question every rule I’d made for myself.
I didn’t have room in my life for this. Not for flirtation. Not for feelings. Not for the way she looked at me like I was worth figuring out. It was a damn problem. And I was letting it grow roots.
But I had to admit, she wasn’t entirely useless. She watched what I was doing and started anticipating what tools I needed before I asked for them. It was... not terrible. Having an extra pair of hands, even slightly clumsy ones.
“So, does this happens often?” she asked, gesturing to the flooded ground around us.
“Often enough. These lines are older than you are, and replacing the whole system would cost more than I made last year.” I tightened the last fitting. “Just another glamorous day in paradise.”
I turned the water back on and waited. I could feel her watching me. It was distracting, the way she studied everything I did like she was filing it away for later. Most people got bored watching manual labor. She seemed genuinely interested, which was almost worse than if she’d been complaining.
She wasn’t just surviving the mess—I think she might have been enjoying it. Like she was built for chaos and had no idea what it did to me.
“Oh, for the love of—” I heard her mutter, followed by a splash and that same creative cursing she’d used yesterday.
I looked up to find her sitting in the middle of the biggest puddle in the grove, covered in mud from head to toe and glaring at a tree root that had tripped her up.
“Let me guess,” I said. “The tree root jumped out at you.”
“Shut up,” she said, but there was no real heat in it. “Just... don’t say anything. I know exactly how this looks.”
“It looks like you’re sitting in a puddle.”
“I said don’t say anything!”
But she was laughing as she said it—not the embarrassed giggle I might have expected, but real laughter that made something twist uncomfortably in my chest. She looked ridiculous, covered in mud and sitting in three inches of dirty water, and she was laughing about it.
Fuck. I was in trouble.
The kind of trouble you didn’t walk away from clean. The kind that left you aching in all the wrong ways.
I finished the repair and waded through the mud to where she sat and held out my hand, trying to ignore the way her laughter made her whole face light up. “This is becoming a habit.”
She took my hand, and I pulled her to her feet, but her feet were slippery with mud and momentum carried her forward, straight into my arms. I caught her automatically and suddenly we were pressed together from chest to knee.
She was warm and soft and looking up at me with those dark eyes that seemed to see right through every wall I’d built.
“This is definitely becoming a habit,” she echoed breathlessly, her hands splayed against my chest.
I should have let go. Should have stepped back and put some distance between us. Instead, I found myself looking at her mouth, wondering if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.
“A bad habit,” I said, but my voice came out rough.
“The worst,” she agreed, but she didn’t move away.
Neither did I.
We stood there in the middle of the flooded grove, covered in mud and staring at each other like we’d forgotten how to speak.
All I could hear was the pounding of my own heartbeat and the whisper of leaves overhead like they were rooting for a kiss that hadn’t happened yet.
My thumb found the curve of her hip through the muddy hem of her shirt, and I heard her sharp intake of breath at my touch.
I was losing my mind. That was the only explanation for why I was thinking about kissing a woman I’d known for exactly two days. A woman who was nothing but trouble and complications and everything I’d sworn off.
“Here.” I started unbuttoning my flannel shirt. “Take this.”
“Trent, you don’t have to—”
“Take the shirt, Abby.” I shrugged out of it. I stood there in just my jeans, holding it out to her. “You’re going to freeze in that wet thing.”
She took the flannel from me, her fingers brushing mine in the process. “Thank you. Now turn around.” She made a little twirling motion with her hand.
I thought about not doing as she asked and seeing what she’d do.
What I would do. We locked eyes for just a moment before I turned on my heel.
I heard the rustle of fabric behind me as she stripped off her muddy shirt, and I had to clench my fists to keep from turning around.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her soft skin, about what she looks like in just her bra, about how the flannel is going to smell like her afterward.
“Okay,” she said softly. “You can turn around.”
I turned, and every coherent thought left my head.
My flannel shirt hung to mid-thigh on her small frame, the sleeves rolled up to keep her hands free. She’d left it unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of the smooth skin beneath, and her dark hair now fell in waves down her back.
She looked like every fantasy I’d never let myself have. And now she was standing there in my shirt, like the orchard had summoned her just for me.
“Better?” she asked, and there was something in her voice that told me she wasn’t unaffected by this either.
“Much better,” I managed, clearing my throat.
She smiled, a little shy, a little knowing. “You know, if someone had told me a week ago that I’d be standing in a flooded apple orchard wearing the grumpy owner’s shirt, I’d have checked them into a mental health facility.”
She said it like a joke, but the truth was sitting there between us, sticky as spilled cider.
“And now?”
“Now I’m thinking this might be the best look I’ve ever had.”
Her mouth was just inches from mine.
Too close. Too tempting. Too late.
“Abby…” I warned, though I didn’t know what I was warning her against—me, this, us. But she didn’t move away.
Her breath was warm against my lips, sweet and tart, like cider and secrets. And then she tilted her chin just slightly, inviting—no, daring—me to close the distance.
So I did.
I took her mouth with the kind of hunger I’d kept buried for years—fast, deep, a little reckless. Her gasp slipped against my tongue as I licked into her mouth—slow at first, then deeper, rougher, dragging across the roof of her mouth like I needed to brand her from the inside out.
She tasted like everything I shouldn’t want—apples and fall wind and the kind of softness that stuck to your skin.
Her hands were on my shoulders, her fingers digging into my skin like she couldn’t get close enough. And when I growled—growled, like a man undone—she opened for me even more, her tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that felt too good, too perfect, too damn right.
I’d meant to kiss her once. Just once. A single taste to shut down the need clawing at my insides.
But I couldn’t stop. One hand fisted the back of her shirt, the other wrapped tight around her waist as I devoured her like a starving man.
Her body molded to mine like she belonged there, like she’d always been meant to be there.
And me?
I forgot my name. Forgot my orchard. Forgot my rules.
There was only her. Her mouth. Her taste. The wild thump of her pulse. And the terrifying, addictive truth that I didn’t want to let her go.
Then I heard the voices. The laughter.
Damn it, a tour was coming through. I broke off the kiss, her whimper of protest going straight to my groin. “There’s someone coming.”
Her lips were still on mine. Not literally, but imprinted, burned into every nerve ending. And it was all I could do not to drag her back into that kiss. But the moment shattered, and I let it.
Like a coward.
“I, um, I can walk back to my car.” She stood there looking as dazed as I felt.
“No.” The word came from somewhere deep and primitive, somewhere that couldn’t stand the thought of her walking alone across uneven ground. I gathered up my tools, trying to get my body back under control. “Get in the truck.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re cold and covered in mud. Get in the damn truck, Abby.”
Her name slipped out before I could stop it, and I saw her eyes widen slightly at the sound of it.
I’d been calling her Ms. Foster all day, keeping that formal distance between us.
But standing there in the flooded grove, watching her try to be brave about walking back alone… all my defenses felt paper-thin.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
The first thing I did was grab a shirt from the back of the truck.
I pulled it on like a coat of armor. It didn’t help much, but it was something.
We drove back to the main shed in silence, the air thick with tension and unspoken words.
When I pulled up next to her car, she didn’t immediately get out.
The orchard was quieter here, the wind rustling through half-bare trees, leaves crunching under the truck’s tires.
“Trent.” Just hearing my name from her lips wrecked me. Soft. Honest. No sarcasm to hide behind. I wanted to kiss her again. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing an incredible job keeping this place running.”
The sincerity in her voice hit me like a sucker punch. I gripped the steering wheel tighter and stared straight ahead.
“I, um, won’t be able to come tomorrow until after school, is that okay?”
I should have said no. Should have told her I could handle the rest of the preparations myself and saved us both the trouble.
“Yeah,” I heard myself say. “The apples can’t tell time.”
That brought another smile to her face, but she didn’t say another word, just got out of the truck and walked to her car. I should’ve been relieved. I needed her gone. Out of the orchard. Out of the mud. Out of my head.
I watched her drive away and tried to convince myself I was relieved.
I realized I was getting really good at lying to myself.