Chapter 6
The storm clears by morning, leaving the orchard smelling like wet leaves and woodsmoke.
The air has that sharpness that makes you pull your sweater tighter and breathe deeper at the same time.
It's the kind of morning that feels like a fresh start, all clean air and golden light filtering through the remaining drops on the apple tree leaves. The storm has washed the world clean, leaving everything bright and renewed. If I were writing this scene for the book club, this would be the moment when everything changes between the hero and heroine. But I’m not an author.
I’m the oldest daughter who inherited the family orchard.
It’s a lot of work keeping it running during the year.
But in the fall? It’s almost an impossible task.
I step outside the barn, blinking against the watery sunlight.
My boots sink into mud, the ground soft from last night's downpour.
Behind me, Brett emerges, stretching like he actually got sleep.
I did not. My body aches from tossing on the hay, nerves wound too tight from sharing space with him and that storm.
Sharing space.
That's one way to put it. Another way to put it would be spending the night hyperaware of every sound he made, every shift of his body, every quiet breath that reminded me he was there, just a few feet away, radiating that calm competence that makes me want to test his control. Test my theory about his dominant tendencies. Throw myself at a virtual stranger. Although, this last week, I’ve gotten to know him a lot better than I would have thought.
"You look tired," he observes.
"Gee, thanks," I mutter, tugging my hood up. "Nothing like a compliment to start the day."
His mouth quirks, not exactly a smile, but close. "You should have gone home when the storm let up last night. You’d have slept better in your own bed. I would have been fine alone.”
"I can handle sleeping in the barn. I’ve slept there many times."
"I know you can handle it." His tone is calm, steady, too steady. "But just because you can doesn't mean you always should."
There's the implication again. The one that suggests I don't have to carry everything alone, that accepting help doesn't make me weak.
It's a seductive idea, especially when it comes from someone who's proven he can actually provide that help.
But surrendering control, even a little bit, feels like stepping off a cliff.
I turn quickly, striding toward the tractor shed. "Come on. Work doesn't wait just because Mother Nature threw a tantrum."
By midmorning, the sun burns through the clouds, turning the orchard into a postcard.
Leaves glow amber and gold. Kids on a field trip shriek on the hayride.
The smell of frying donuts drifts on the air.
You’d think I’d get tired of this. The same foods, the same drinks, the same atmosphere day in and day out for two months.
I don’t. When the fall has come and gone, and the winter months strip the trees and there isn’t an apple in sight, I’ll miss this.
I’ll miss warm apple cider drizzled with just the right amount of caramel on top, warm donuts that melt on my tongue and laughter.
So much laughter. Watching families make memories on the land that has been in my family for generations.
It's picture-perfect fall weather, the kind that makes tourists drive for hours just to experience authentic orchard life. City people who come in with the outfits they’ve bought for this experience, who go back to their cubicles and talk about how they roughed it.
This is the kind of day that should make me grateful for the business, proud of what I've built here.
Instead, I'm distracted by the way Brett moves through the chaos with that same unflappable confidence, like he's found his place in my world. I don’t want him here. I don’t want him to be comfortable in my world.
Right? I mean, he has a life and a job and is as temporary as the yearly harvest.
Today, he trails me like a shadow, clipboard tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He doesn't complain about hauling cider crates or corralling kids, he just does it. Efficiently. Thoroughly. Infuriatingly.
And every time he gives me that level, assessing look, it makes me feel… seen. Too seen.
Those forearms are becoming a problem. Every time he lifts something heavy or reaches for a high shelf, the muscles flex under his skin in ways that make me lose track of whatever I was supposed to be doing.
It's ridiculous! I'm a grown woman getting distracted by a man's arms like some teenager with a crush. The good Lord knew what he was doing when he made Brett’s arms though… I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be held in them… after he’s done doing completely dirty and delicious things to me, of course.
Lost in completely inappropriate thoughts, I drop a box of apples and he crouches beside me instantly, gathering strays before they roll away.
"Slow down," he says. "You're going to hurt yourself."
“Have you looked around here?” I scowl, brushing hair from my face. "I don't have the luxury of slowing down."
“You’ll slow down so you don’t hurt yourself.” His hand stills on an apple, eyes meeting mine. "Or I'll make sure you do."
The promise in his voice makes my breath catch. Not a suggestion or an offer, but a statement of intent. Like he's already decided that taking care of me is his responsibility, and he's just waiting for me to accept it.
"You don't get to 'make sure' of anything in my life, professor."
"Don't I?" he asks softly. Not teasing. Not smug. Just certain. The kind of certainty that should infuriate me. Instead, it sends a dangerous thrill through my chest, the same feeling I get when I read about heroines surrendering control to heroes who actually deserve it. The kind of men who don't just demand obedience but earn it. They earn her respect and if I were to be honest with myself, Brett has done everything right. He’s been respectful, patient and kind. Nothing he’s done has been offensive or rude. Although, I’ve been trying my hardest to hate him. I can’t hate him.
Honestly? There’s not a dang thing about him I hate. No matter how hard I try.
I drop my gaze, pretending to focus on the apples, but the truth is undeniable: I'd obeyed him last night when he told me to move closer to the fire. Obeyed without even thinking. I obeyed him when he told me to breathe. I’ve obeyed every command he’s issued me.
Without thinking. Without pausing. He commands and I obey.
And I hated how much I liked it.
“I need to go get a few things done. Check on Clyde and the guys out in the field and hang a new bunting. The old one got destroyed in the storm.” What I really need is a break from his presence. “Can you help Sadie grab another barrel of apples?”
He looks at me like he’s going to say no. Instead, he nods. “Don’t climb the ladder without getting someone to spot you.”
After checking on the guys cleaning up fallen limbs from the storm, I head back to the barn. I'm balancing on the fourth rung of the ladder, stretching to hang the new bunting across the farm stand when the ladder wobbles.
The wooden ladder is old, probably older than I am, and definitely not designed for someone of my less-than-graceful tendencies. But it's what we have, and the bunting needs to go up, and I've never been good at asking for help when I think I can manage alone.
"Damn it," I gasp, clutching the top rail.
Before I can fall, Brett's hands clamp around my waist, steady and unyielding.
"I told you not to climb without someone holding the ladder.
" His voice is quiet steel. His hands are large and warm, spanning my waist with a confidence that makes my pulse skip.
There's nothing hesitant about his touch, nothing apologetic.
He's holding me like he has the right, like my safety is his responsibility whether I asked for it or not.
And, I absolutely have not. I should thank him though, but instead…
my mind and my common sense seem to want to war with each other.
"I didn't ask for your help."
"You didn't have to." He grips the ladder, anchoring it with his body while keeping one firm hand at my hip. "Finish the banner. I've got you."
I've got you.
Three simple words that somehow manage to be both reassurance and promise.
His hand stays steady at my hip, not possessive but protective, reminding me that I'm not alone up here. That someone is watching out for me, whether I think I need it or not. The words melt me from the inside out. I can feel the strength in his hold, a hold I’d been curious about just hours before.
I can feel the power in his arms. I don’t know when he finds the time, but he definitely works out.
I tie the bunting as quickly as possible, heart hammering. When I climb down, his hand lingers just long enough to make me shiver.
He notices. Oh, he definitely notices. The smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth speaks volumes.
He's learning what makes me respond, what breaks through my defenses.
It should alarm me how easily he reads my body's reactions.
Instead, it makes me wonder what else he's noticed about me. He leans in close.
“You are lucky you aren’t mine. Disobedience that puts you in harm's way would have to be dealt with.”
I don’t have time to consider what he means or to think of a response before Vincent Van Goat is running by. The chase is on and his words, momentarily forgotten.
Later, I’m back in the barn and I’m sorting through the bruised apples that had fallen during the storm. Some are worth selling, others will be used to make apple sauce, cider or jam. I have my favorite playlist streaming and sunlight slants through the high windows, catching dust motes in the air.
“Want some help?” Brett appears in the doorway.