CHAPTER SEVEN
It's late. Too late. The orchard sleeps, quiet except for the crickets and the rustle of leaves.
The lanterns along the barn cast golden pools of light on the gravel path, and the air smells of apples, hay, and the faint musk of animals bedded down for the night.
I should be in bed. God knows I need sleep.
But instead, I curl into a hay bale fortress in the back of the barn, Kindle in hand, heart thudding as I swipe to the next page.
The heroine is bent over a kitchen counter, skirt pushed up, panties tugged down, while her stern-but-loving Daddy lectures her about honesty. My cheeks burn, even though I'm alone.
Except suddenly, I'm not.
The realization hits me like a cold splash of water, making me jolt so hard I nearly drop the Kindle.
Of all the times for someone to walk into the barn, of all the people who could have caught me reading smut in a hay pile like some sort of romance novel cliché—it had to be him.
I’d forgotten that he’d volunteered to stay late tonight; to help my brother-in-law set up the orchard for a retirement brunch we were hosting in the morning.
Special events were my sister’s thing. I can barely keep up with the day-to-day operations.
Boots scuff across the floor. Then Brett's voice, low and dry: "You know most people read in bed, not in drafty barns."
My pulse rockets. "I—couldn't sleep," I stammer, sitting straighter. Which is completely untrue. I never went to bed. Never made it back to the house. The lie comes out thin and unconvincing, probably because my voice is still breathless from the scene I was just reading.
Great.
Now I sound like I was doing something far more scandalous than reading romance novels. Although, given the content of what I was reading, maybe the distinction isn't as clear as I'd like.
"Mm-hm." His gaze flicks to the device I'm holding in a death grip. "What's got you so jumpy? Smut?"
My jaw drops. "Excuse me?"
"Romance, then," he amends smoothly, moving closer. The firelight catches on his glasses, making his eyes unreadable. "Though from the look on your face, I'm guessing, not the Hallmark Channel kind."
How does he do that? How does he see straight through every defense I try to put up?
It's like he has some sort of radar for the things I want to keep hidden, the vulnerabilities I've spent years learning to mask. How does he read my mind? Maybe he really is Superman. For a split second, I consider the possibility. Superman doesn’t read minds though, that’s not his super power, right? I can’t remember.
“So, what are you reading?” He asks.
"I—It's none of your business. I’m none of your business." I quickly close the lid of my e-reader.
"On the contrary." He crouches in front of me, reaching with unhurried ease. Before I can react, he plucks the Kindle from my hands.
The movement is so smooth, so confident, that I don't even think to resist until it's too late. And there's something about the casual authority in the gesture, the way he simply takes what he wants to examine, that sends an unwelcome thrill through me.
"Brett!" I lunge, but he's already scanning the open page. His brows lift, and his mouth curves into a slow, wicked smile.
"Well, well. Seems our orchardist has interesting tastes."
The mortification is complete and total.
Not only has he caught me reading in the barn like some sort of romance novel heroine, but he's actually reading the content.
The very explicit, very detailed content about Daddy Doms and kitchen counters and exactly the sort of dynamic that I've been trying not to think about every time he uses that commanding tone with me.
Heat surges through me, half fury, half mortification. "Give it back!" I stand up and try to grab it back.
"Patience," he says, flipping the device shut and holding it just out of reach. "I want to understand what makes you blush in a barn at midnight."
Patience.
Like I'm a child being taught a lesson. The word choice can't be accidental, not when he's just seen exactly what kind of book I was reading, what kind of scenarios make my pulse race and my cheeks flush.
"It was private," I snap.
His eyes sharpen, that steady authority sliding into place like it's the most natural thing in the world. "And it would've stayed private if you hadn’t taunted me."
There's that tone again, the one that makes my spine straighten involuntarily, that bypasses my conscious mind and speaks directly to something deeper. The same tone the hero in my book uses when he's correcting his heroine's behavior.
I bristle. "I didn't taunt you!"
"You did and then you hid it." His voice dips lower. "And when you hide something, it tells me you're ashamed. Are you?"
The question cuts straight to the heart of my conflict. Because part of me is ashamed. I’m ashamed of wanting things I've never admitted out loud, ashamed of the way my body responds to his authority, ashamed of how perfectly he seems to fit the fantasy I've been secretly nurturing.
"No!" I insist, though the heat in my cheeks betrays me.
"Then why," he asks, leaning closer, "are you acting like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar? Why are your cheeks bright red? Who are you lying to exactly? Me or yourself?"
Kid. Cookie jar. The words land with deliberate precision, and I know, absolutely know, that he's choosing them on purpose.
That he understands exactly what he just read, exactly what kind of dynamic appeals to me, and he's testing to see how I react.
The pieces click together in a way that makes my stomach flip and my thighs clench.
I was correct in my assumptions. Brett is a Daddy.
"Brett…"
"Tell me" His gaze doesn't waver. "Tell me what kind of book you were reading." The command is unmistakable, delivered in that same tone that made me obey when he told me to put down the crate, when he told me to move closer to the fire. And God help me, I want to obey now too.
I swallow hard. "A… Daddy Dom romance."
Satisfaction flickers across his face, slow and deliberate. "Good girl."
The words send heat racing through my veins and settling low in my belly. This is exactly what the heroines in my books feel when their Daddies praise them. A rush of liquid arousal in my underwear and the desperate need for more approval. More praise. More Daddy.
Instead of accepting the praise, instead of melting under his gaze, I chose to push his buttons. I decided to test him and see exactly how far he is willing to go tonight. “Who do you think you are?”
“Watch that tone.”
"You have no right to tell me what—"
He moves before I can register what he is doing. A half step behind me and his hand lands, a quick, firm swat squarely on my backside. Not painful, but enough to jolt me forward.
The swat is exactly like the ones I've been reading about, firm enough to get my attention, controlled enough to show his restraint, delivered with the kind of casual authority that suggests this is perfectly normal behavior.
My body's response is immediate and unwelcome: a spike of arousal that makes my underwear damp and nipples tighten in my bra.
I gasp, spinning around. "Did you just—"
"Yes." He sits back on his heels, calm as you please. "One swat. A warning. Because your tone was out of line."
Out of line. Like I'm misbehaving and need correction. The casual way he says it, like disciplining me is the most natural thing in the world, makes my pulse hammer against my ribs.
"I can't believe you—"
"Believe it." His gaze pins me. "I don't bluff, Monica. And something tells me you don't really want me to be anything less than who I am."
The accuracy of his observation is terrifying.
Because he's right. I don't want him to be anything but authentic.
I want him to mean it, want him to follow through, want him to be exactly the kind of man I've been reading about in the safety of fiction.
My whole-body hums, caught between outrage and something darker, deeper, hotter.
"You're insane. This is insane."
"Maybe." He sets the Kindle aside, rising to his full height. "Or maybe I just recognize a woman who craves structure and discipline."
Structure and discipline. The combination that defines every good Daddy Dom romance, the balance between guidance and passion that makes the dynamic so appealing.
"I don't—"
“Don’t lie to me, Monica.” The tone is conversational, not aggressive.
“I don’t crave–”
"You do." He cuts me off again, voice quiet but implacable.
"Last night, when I told you to come closer to the fire, you did.
When I told you to slow down, you listened, even if only for a moment.
And just now, when I swatted you, your body didn't pull away.
While your words spoke one thing, your body demonstrated something else altogether.
You have a terrible poker face, sweetheart. "
Each example hits like a revelation, forcing me to confront the pattern I've been trying to ignore. The way I respond to his authority, the way my body obeys even when my mind protests, the way I crave the structure he offers even as I fight against it.
I freeze. He's right. God help me, he's right. What do I do now? What do I say?
My phone buzzes loudly, breaking the moment. I reach into my pocket and pull it out. I hope my actions are as dismissive as I want them to be. Because I’m not ready. Not ready to talk about this with him. Not yet, anyway.
Holly: Monicaaaa. PLEASE tell me you have caught up! We have to talk about the book tonight!
Christine: She's probably too busy pretending she doesn't want her grumpy scientist to bend her over a hay bale.
Janelle: Perfect Professor is totally Daddy vibes. Calling it now.
The timing couldn't be worse or more perfectly ironic. Here I am, having the exact conversation the girls have been predicting, and they're texting me about hay bales and Daddy vibes like they have some sort of psychic connection to my love life.
Me: You're all deranged. Also, stop psychic-reading my life.
When I glance up, Brett is watching me with that knowing half-smile that makes my insides knot.
"What?" I demand.
"You didn't deny it," he says softly.
And damn him, he's right again. I didn’t deny his observations, and I didn’t deny the girl’s words either.
Not that he would know what was going on in the chat.
Even with them I deflected, I protested, I called them deranged but I didn't deny wanting him to bend me over a hay bale.
Because the truth is, after tonight, after that swat and those commanding words and the way he looked at me when I admitted what I was reading, the fantasy doesn't seem quite so impossible anymore.
“I’m headed out,” he says. “Go to bed at a reasonable time tonight, Monica. You are working yourself too hard and I’m worried about you. Daddies don’t like it when their girls put their health and safety at risk.”
He leaves me in the barn gawking after him, my dignity in tatters. But the phantom sting of that swat lingers all the way to my bed, and when I finally drift into sleep, my dreams are full of the sound of his voice calling me good girl.