Chapter 11
The orchard is alive tonight.
The air is crisp enough to make you pull your sweater closer, but warm enough that couples can still steal kisses under the starlight.
The scent of woodsmoke from the bonfire mingles with cinnamon from the donut stand and the sweet tang of fresh cider, creating an atmosphere so perfectly cozy it feels almost too good to be real.
It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. Like my Perfect Professor.
The annual Harvest Moon Festival has always been my favorite night of the year, but this year feels different. This year, Brett is here.
And not just here as a visitor or an observer, but truly present in a way that makes my heart swell with possibilities I'm only beginning to let myself imagine.
He's not the polished academic who walked into my orchard weeks ago with his clipboard and pristine boots.
He's become something else entirely, someone who belongs in this world I've built, someone who makes it better just by being part of it.
He's standing by the cider press, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking unfairly good for a man who still insists flannel is "practical." His glasses glint under the lantern light as he shows a group of kids how the press works, his voice steady, patient. They hang on his every word.
Watching him with those children, explaining the mechanics of apple pressing with the same careful attention he once reserved for rare botanical specimens, I see glimpses of the father he might become someday.
The thought should terrify me, but instead it fills me with a warm certainty that this man, this complicated, wonderful man, is exactly who I want to build a future with.
I hang on the sight of him.
Mrs. Henderson from down the road appears at my elbow, following my gaze with a knowing smile.
"That young man of yours is certainly fitting in well," she observes, her voice warm with approval.
"Been helping with the hay maze all evening, and I haven't heard a single complaint about getting his clothes dirty. "
"He's learning," I reply, unable to keep the pride from my voice.
"Learning, nothing," she chuckles. "That boy's found his place. Question is, have you found yours?"
Before I can answer, she's melted back into the crowd, leaving me with the truth of her words.
Because she's right, I have found my place.
Not just in the orchard I've always called home, but in this new version of my life that includes Brett, includes us, includes the future we're building together.
I never imagined he'd fit here. The city scientist with his Latin and his clipped notes.
But he does. More than fit, he belongs. The transformation has been gradual but undeniable.
I watch him now, crouched down to help a little girl reach the cider spigot, and I can barely remember the man who worried about mud on his hiking boots.
This Brett, the patient, gentle, completely at ease with the chaos of small-town life, this is the man I've fallen in love with.
And watching him with my family, my neighbors, the people who've known me since I was in pigtails, I realize something that makes my chest ache with joy.
He's mine. I’m not only his, but he… he belongs to me, too.
The thought sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with possession and everything to do with belonging. Not just that he belongs to me, but that we belong together, in this place, with these people, building something that's bigger than either of us alone.
"Monica!" My cousin waves me over to where she's manning the apple bobbing station. "Brett just volunteered to judge the pie contest with you. I think he's trying to score points with the family."
I laugh, making my way through the crowd. "He doesn't need to score points. He's already won over the only vote that matters."
"Yours?" she asks with a grin.
"Aunt Jeannie's," I correct, which makes her laugh so hard she nearly drops the bucket of apples.
By the time I reach the pie contest table, Brett is deep in conversation with three of our most competitive bakers, taking notes on flavor profiles and crust techniques with the same scientific rigor he once applied to botanical research.
The sight makes me ridiculously happy. This brilliant man applying his considerable intellect to the things that matter to my community, treating our traditions with the respect they deserve.
Later, when the last of the visitors are gone and the cider kegs have been rolled back into the barn, I find him leaning against the old tractor. His hair's mussed, his shirt rumpled, and his smile just for me.
"Tired?" he asks.
"Exhausted." I sink onto the hay bale beside him. "But happy."
"Good." He slides an arm around my shoulders, tugging me close. "That's all I want. For you to be happy."
The simple sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. After months of being told what I should want, what I should do, how I should run my orchard, here's a man whose only agenda is my happiness. It's such a foreign concept that I almost don't know how to process it.
I tip my head against him, inhaling the mix of apples and soap and Brett. "I wasn't sure I'd ever let myself be."
He presses a kiss to my temple. "You deserve more than just surviving, Monica. You deserve joy."
Joy. Such a simple word, but it encompasses everything I've been afraid to want.
Not just contentment or satisfaction, but actual joy, the kind that bubbles up from deep inside and spills over into every corner of your life.
The kind I feel when I watch him explain cider pressing to children, when he holds my hand during the hayride, when he looks at me like I'm the most precious thing in his world.
The words sink deep, and I blink hard against the sting in my eyes. "You're bossy, you know that?"
His chuckle rumbles against me. "And you're mouthy. Guess that's why we work."
We work. Such a casual phrase for something so profound.
But he's right. We do work, in ways I never expected.
His need for structure balanced by my spontaneity, his careful precision complemented by my instinctive warmth, his quiet authority meeting my stubborn independence and somehow creating harmony instead of conflict.
Silence stretches, comfortable now, filled with cricket song and the faint rustle of leaves.
Then he clears his throat. "I, uh… I talked to Jeannie about the cottage."
I lift my head. "The one at the edge of the orchard?"
"Yeah. She said it's been empty too long, and it needs someone who'll keep the pipes from freezing." He shifts, nervous in a way I rarely see. "I was thinking… maybe that someone could be me."
The cottage has been empty since my great-aunt passed away five years ago.
It’s a sweet little two-bedroom with a wraparound porch and a garden that's gone wild with neglect.
I've always meant to fix it up, to make it livable again, but somehow there's never been time.
Now, suddenly, I can picture it perfectly: Brett on the porch in the mornings with his coffee and his research notes, the garden restored to its former glory, a real home instead of just a place to sleep.
My breath catches. "You want to live here?"
"I want to live with you." His gaze is steady now, all nerves gone.
"I want to wake up to the smell of apples and hear you cursing tractors and spend nights reminding you to stop working past midnight.
I want to chase goats around the orchard and make love to you in the barn.
I want to build something here, Monica. With you.
" He's talking about a life, a future, a partnership that goes beyond the passion we've discovered and into something deeper, more lasting.
He's talking about roots and permanence and all the things I thought I'd have to choose between.
"The cottage would need work," I say, practical even in the face of everything I've been hoping to hear. "New roof, updated plumbing, probably rewiring the whole electrical system."
His smile is soft, understanding. "I'm good with my hands. And I learn fast."
"You'd have to deal with the orchard politics. Town council meetings. Zoning disputes with the county. All the drama that goes with owning a tourist location."
"I've handled academic politics. How much worse could small-town politics be?"
I laugh despite myself. "You have no idea."
"Then you'll have to teach me." He reaches for my hand, entwining our fingers. "Teach me everything. The way you read the weather, how to know when the apples are ready, how to be the kind of partner you deserve."
"There's one condition," I add, trying to maintain some semblance of my usual practical nature even as my heart soars. "You have to learn to make Aunt Jeannie's apple butter recipe. It's a family tradition."
"Deal," he agrees without hesitation. "Though I reserve the right to take scientific notes on the process."
"Wouldn't expect anything less from my favorite botanist."
"Your only botanist," he corrects.
"My only anything," I reply, and the truth of it settles over us both like a blessing.
We end up back in the barn, because of course we do. The loft still holds the blanket we left there weeks ago, and the moment we climb up, Brett pins me with that look. The one that makes my knees weak and my pulse race.
For once, words fail me. Instead, I kiss him. Soft, sure, full of all the things I can't say out loud yet. The kiss tastes like promises and possibilities, like coming home and setting off on an adventure all at once.
When we finally break apart, I see his smile.Tonight feels different from all the nights that came before.
Tonight isn't about desperation or need or the urgent pull of new desire.
Tonight is about choice—the conscious decision to build a life together, to trust each other with our futures as well as our hearts.
“You’ve been good tonight,” he murmurs, brushing hair from my face. “Running the festival, being sweet to every last person who crossed your path.”
I grin, wickedly. “Even when they asked if we were selling pumpkin spice soap and I reminded him we are an apple orchard, not a pumpkin patch?”
“Even then.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “Which means you deserve a reward.”
I arch a brow. “And if I’d been bad?”
His hand slides down, cupping my backside with deliberate pressure. “Then you’d be over my knee again, learning your lesson.” He gives a light swat, sharp enough to make me gasp, playful enough to make me laugh.
Heat curls low in my belly. “Maybe I like being bad.”
His eyes darken, his smile slow and devastating. “Oh, I know you do. I know exactly how much you like being my naughty good girl.”
The kiss that follows is hot, hungry, edged with all the teasing promise of his words.
Clothes scatter, the blanket soft beneath us, the autumn night cool against overheated skin.
He takes me slow, steady, drawing out every gasp, every shiver, until I’m unraveling under him, clinging, crying out.
He murmurs praise into my ear, calling me his good girl, his strong girl, his mine.
When I finally fall apart, it’s with the sense that I’m not just giving him my body. I’m giving him everything. My orchard. My heart. My future. And when he follows, groaning my name against my neck, I know he’s giving me the same.
Later, as I lay in bed thinking about how happy I am, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s the Naughty Girls’ group chat, and the thread is already blowing up.
Elizabeth: Guess who just got her first shift as a Christmas elf at Santa’s Workshop?!
Christine: …please tell me you mean the mall kind and not an actual workshop?
Faye: With you, I’m never sure.
Karen: Nope. Our Holly. She’s literally dressed in bells and green tights right now. Holly, send a pic.
I snort, covering my mouth so Brett doesn’t stir. A second later, a photo pops up: Holly, grinning ear to ear, cheeks flushed pink, peppermint mocha in hand, glitter all over her hair. And yes, wearing a jingle-belled hat.
Holly: Don’t laugh! This place is magical. Plus… my new boss is ridiculously hot. Like “Santa turned into Christian Grey” hot.
Christine: Tell me more.
Holly: No. Stop. I can’t. He’s way too serious. But also… kind of growly. Like a grumpy Daddy type?
Faye: Girl. You better unwrap THAT present.
I shake my head, biting back a laugh as more messages flood in. Brett stirs behind me, murmuring, “What’s so funny, little girl?” His voice is rough with sleep, warm against my skin.
“Nothing,” I whisper, tucking my phone away and rolling into his arms. “Just… Christmas magic on the horizon.”
And as I drift to sleep, I can’t help but smile. Because if I know Holly… Santa’s Workshop is about to get a whole lot naughtier.
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A snowstorm, one bed, and a grumpy boss who turns out to be the Daddy of my holiday dreams…
Getting snowed in with your boss at a Christmas theme park sounds like the setup to a bad Hallmark movie.
Except in my version, there's a spanking bench in Santa’s sleigh barn, the hot cocoa bar is always open, and my grumpy, ridiculously hot boss just found my secret stash of Daddy Dom romance novels.
I didn’t mean for Justin Bell—director of operations and certified control freak—to find out what really gets my candy cane quivering. But now that he knows? He’s not just taking notes. He’s taking charge.
There’s only one bed in the park’s VIP lodge. The roads are closed. And Daddy says I’ve been a very naughty elf.
Let’s just say… I won’t be sitting comfortably by the time the snowplows arrive.