Chapter 10 #2
Everything that once brought me comfort now feels hollow. The morning routine of checking the trees, the satisfaction of a successful harvest day, even the cozy warmth of the farmhouse kitchen, it all feels flat, colorless, like I'm going through the motions of a life that no longer fits.
The next two days blur together: festival crowds, school tours, apple pressing. I move through it all like a ghost, smiling when I must, snapping when I can't hold the mask.
The irony isn't lost on me that this should be the magical peak of fall season.
There are families making memories, couples stealing kisses behind the cider barn, children shrieking with joy as they discover perfect pumpkins.
I should be smiling at the shenanigans going on around me.
Instead, I feel like an actress in a play I no longer want to perform, going through the motions while my heart slowly breaks.
At night, I curl up in bed with my phone, watching the Naughty Girls' Book Club light up with texts.
Christine: Heard about your apple-gate on the news. You okay, babe?
Lily: Forget him. If Daddy can't protect his girl's orchard, he doesn't deserve her peaches.
Anna: She's not going to forget him. Don't even pretend.
They know me too well, these women who've become my chosen family through late-night chats about fictional men and real-life dreams. They understand that this isn't just about a professional betrayal. No, it’s more. Even though he only came into my life two weeks ago, we’d connected unlike anything I’ve felt before.
I’ve never had sex with a man in so short a time.
I’ve never had sex with a man I wasn’t in a committed relationship with.
I fell hard and fast… I was stupid. I feel for a man who seemed to step straight out of our favorite books, the one who made me believe that dominant, protective heroes actually exist in real life.
I bury my face in my pillow, aching. They're right. I can't forget him. Every corner of this place has his fingerprints now. They are on the tractor he finally mastered, the goat pen he reinforced, the memory of his hand warm on my cheek.
And the way he made me feel in the hayloft.
The way he called me good girl.
The memory sends a fresh wave of pain through me because it wasn't just about the physical pleasure, though that was devastating enough.
It was about the emotional surrender, the way he made me feel safe enough to be vulnerable, cared for enough to let go of control.
And now I wonder if any of it was real, or if I was just another conquest to him.
A sob breaks free before I can swallow it. How could I have been so wrong about someone?
He comes back on the third day.
I should have known he wouldn't give up easily. Brett Elliot isn't the type to accept defeat gracefully. But I'm not ready for this conversation, not ready to face the man who holds my heart even as he breaks it.
I'm in the sorting barn, separating perfect apples from the cider-bound bruised ones, when the door creaks open.
"Monica."
My whole body stiffens. I don't look up. "Thought I told you to leave."
"You did." His voice is rough. "But I can't. Not without fixing this."
Fixing this.
Like what happened between us is a mechanical problem that can be solved with the right tools and enough patience. Like trust can be repaired as easily as a broken tractor or a loose shutter.
I slam another apple into the cider bin. "You can't fix betrayal."
"You're right." He steps closer, slow, careful, like approaching a skittish animal. "But I can apologize. And I can try to make it right."
There's something different in his voice, a vulnerability I've never heard before, an uncertainty that suggests he's not as confident in his ability to solve this problem as he usually is. It makes me want to look at him, to see if his composure has finally cracked the way mine did.
Finally, I whirl on him, ready to unleash every ounce of fury still coiled in me. But he looks… wrecked. His hair mussed, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep.
This isn't the polished professor who walked into my orchard all those weeks ago, or even the controlled man who disciplined me in the barn. This is someone who's been suffering, someone who's lost something precious and is finally realizing what it cost him.
"I messed up," he admits, hands open at his sides.
"I thought the discovery would help you, when all it did was hurt you. I thought it could bring in more money for you. With the tractor needing replaced and the petting zoo needing reinforced… it doesn’t matter what I thought.
I should have talked to you. Instead, I hurt us. "
I fold my arms, biting down hard on the part of me that wants to soften.
Because this is how it always happens in the books, the hero makes a grand gesture, delivers a heartfelt apology, and all is forgiven in a rush of romantic satisfaction. But this is real life, and real trust takes more than pretty words to rebuild.
"I've already called my boss," he continues. "I told him there won't be another press release. No journalists, no tours, no outside interference. The fruit stays here. With you. Protected."
My breath catches. "You did that?"
The sacrifice implicit in his words hits me like a physical blow.
Because I know what this discovery means to his career, what opportunities he's just closed off, what professional doors he's just slammed shut.
And he did it for me, for us, for the orchard he's learned to love almost as much as I do.
He nods. "Because this orchard isn't just your legacy anymore. It's… ours. If you'll let it be."
The walls around my heart crack. "Why, Brett?" My voice trembles. "Why fight for this, for me, when you could've had fame and glory? Your name in scientific journals?"
Fame and glory. The things that motivate most people, the rewards that academic careers are built on. But he's throwing them away for a stubborn woman and a small orchard in the middle of nowhere Colorado, and I need to understand why.
He steps closer, his hand lifting but not touching, like he's waiting for permission.
"Because none of it means anything without you. Because I fell in love with the woman who can wrangle goats and argue about apple cider and still take my breath away every damn day. Because, Monica, you're not just my girl in the hayloft. You're my girl. Period."
His girl. The possessive certainty in his voice, the way he claims me even as he asks for forgiveness?
It's everything I've been craving since the moment he walked away.
Not just the physical dominance that thrilled me in our most intimate moments, but the emotional ownership that says I belong to him, and he belongs to me, no matter what.
My heart breaks open. Tears spill hot down my cheeks as I whisper, "You're such an idiot."
His smile is shaky. "Your idiot?"
Finally, I let him touch me. His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. "Mine," I admit.
Mine.
The word tastes like coming home, like autumn mornings and apple cider and all the cozy promises I thought I'd lost forever.
Because despite everything, despite the betrayal, the hurt, the broken trust, he's still the man who sees past my defenses to the woman underneath.
He's still my Daddy, in all the ways that matter.
When he kisses me, it's not the hungry, desperate fire of the loft. It's softer, deeper, a promise. And for the first time since the news broke, I let myself believe we might be okay.
More than okay. We might actually be perfect.
Not a flawless perfection of untested fantasy, but the real, hard-won perfection of two people who've fought for each other and chosen each other despite the obstacles.
The kind of love story that's worth writing about, worth believing in, worth building a future on.
In the distance, I can hear the sound of children laughing on the hayride, families making memories in my orchard. And for the first time in three days, it sounds like music instead of mockery.