Daddy’s Naughty Orchardist (Naughty Girls Book Club #6)

Chapter 1

The tractor coughs, groans and sputters before letting out one pitiful puff of black smoke, and dies.

Again. For the fourth time in two days. I don’t want to go tractor shopping in the middle of the season.

My bank account doesn’t want me to buy a new one, either.

I don’t have time to drive two hours to the nearest auction.

How did my life end up like this?

I slam my palm against the steering wheel. "Come on, old girl. Just give me another week."

The irony isn't lost on me that I'm begging a machine older than I am to cooperate, while surrounded by the picture-perfect fall scene that brings tourists from all over the country. Golden leaves drift lazily from the maple trees lining the drive, and the air carries that crisp promise of fall that makes people think about cozy sweaters and romantic walks through apple orchards. This is the kind of scene you see in every opening of a fall Hallmark Movie. It’s supposed to be magical, the kind of setting where fairytale romances bloom alongside the harvest apples and large orange pumpkins.

Hallmark can ignore the nuances that make the scene real.

Vehicles breaking down, animals passing away, crops not performing.

A new species of beetle that says, ‘hold my beer’ to the very hungry caterpillar.

Some might say these things add character, others would feel like it distracts from the setting.

At my orchard, we try to give our visitors a place where they can suspend disbelief and enjoy the perfect, cozy fall experience.

Which means, removing the old, groaning tractor from view.

The orchard hums around me with the sounds of harvest, and I keep all the muttering of curse words in my head and out of my mouth.

Kids squeal from the pumpkin patch where my cousin's wife is setting up a photo booth, and the faint notes of fiddle music drift from the speakers by the cider barn.

I should be feeling the magic of fall, the cozy postcard version that tourists love.

Instead, I'm straddling a tractor that might explode if I look at it wrong.

If this were one of the romance novels the Naughty Girls Book Club has been devouring lately, this would be the moment when the devastatingly handsome stranger appears to save the day.

Some rugged mechanic with calloused hands and knowing eyes who'd lean over the engine, fix it with a few expert touches, then look at me with that smoldering intensity that makes heroines weak in the knees.

But this is real life, not fiction, and the only thing appearing in my orchard today is a growing to-do list and a bank account that's hemorrhaging money faster than I can make it this season.

I kick the side of the tire with the toe of my boot, not hard, just enough to vent my frustration. The tire's coated in mud from the storm last night, and now so are my jeans.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

I climb back up onto the tractor and try to start it again. Nothing. This time I punch the steering wheel. Not hard, just out of pure frustration.

Come on damn it, start.

"Maybe if you stopped assaulting it, it would cooperate."

The voice doesn't belong here. Too smooth. Too polished. Definitely not from anyone I know. And what is that accent?

Suddenly, my romance novel moment has arrived, except instead of a rugged mechanic, I'm staring at what looks like a university professor who wandered off from his stuffy college campus office and somehow ended up in my muddy orchard.

This is not the fantasy rescue I didn't know I was hoping for.

Of course it's not. Since when did magical things happen to or for you?

Never.

My life is hard work and harder chaos.

The stranger stands at the edge of the path, tall and broad-shouldered, his khakis looking way too clean for this much mud. His flannel shirt is tucked in and in his hand, of course, is a clipboard.

Of course.

Everything about him screams "city" and "academic" and "probably has strong opinions about proper comma usage.

" While I couldn’t tell you the difference between a comma, a semicolon and an em dash.

His dark hair is perfectly styled despite the October breeze, and behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes are the kind of deep brown that romance authors always describe as "chocolate" or "coffee. "

But there's something else there too, an intensity that makes my pulse skip.

He’s not a mechanic. Not a Navy SEAL. Not a sexy mountain man with a thick beard. None of the typical alpha male heroes I read about. Although, the broad chest and deep voice had me intrigued. Maybe he’d remove the glasses and turn into Superman. He's sexy, in a nerdy type of way.

"And who exactly would you be?" I demand, crossing my arms. “This area is not open to the public.”

He steps closer, and I see half a dozen small baggies clipped neatly to the board filled with samples of soil, leaves, maybe bark. The kind of thing that screams scientist on a mission. Scientist? Why would a scientist be here?

"Brett Elliot.” His voice is deep, steady, and annoyingly confident. "Botanist. I'm here to study a rare species of Malus domestica rumored to be on this land."

Malus domestica?

What the fuck is a malus domestica?

What language is he speaking? Latin?

Yes, Latin. There’s a man here speaking Latin… To me… and my apple trees?

The way he says it makes me want to mess up his perfect hair just to see what happens.

There's something about overly controlled men that brings out my rebellious streak, and this one looks like he's never had a hair out of place or a thought out of order in his entire life.

It's the kind of buttoned-up composure that practically begs to be unraveled.

The type that would never last five minutes in my chaos orchard.

I snort. "In English, please. We grow apples here, not cast spells."

He blinks at me, clearly not used to people brushing him off. "A rare apple cultivar," he clarifies. "Potentially extinct. I need access to the northernmost section of your orchard. The overgrown tract by the river."

That gets a laugh out of me, sharp and humorless. "Yeah, no. Absolutely not."

His brows furrow. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." I hop down from the tractor, boots sinking into the mud, and plant myself in front of him.

He's at least six inches taller than me, and I hate that I notice.

"That part of the orchard is off-limits.

It's nothing but brambles, poison ivy, and trouble.

And I don't need some stranger with shiny boots stomping around and making more work for me.

" The liability issues would be a nightmare.

The words come out sharper than I intend, but something about his assumption that he can just waltz onto my property and demand access rubs me wrong.

I've spent my entire life protecting this place, and I'm not about to let some ivory tower academic with a clipboard demand access. Who did he think he was?

"They're hiking boots," he corrects stiffly.

"They're spotless," I shoot back, my gaze dropping deliberately to his footwear. "Clearly never seen a real orchard."

And they really are spotless, made out of an expensive-looking leather that's probably waterproof and designed for weekend nature walks, not the kind of muddy, exhausting work that keeps an orchard running. Everything about him is polished and perfect, from his pressed khakis to his neatly trimmed fingernails. He's the kind of man who probably irons his socks and keeps his spice rack alphabetized. I’m sure the contents of his refrigerator are perfectly arranged with all leftovers thrown out within an appropriate time frame, instead of being allowed to grow mold. Yeah. We couldn’t be more different.

For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Him with that stiff, academic posture, me with grease on my hands and mud on my jeans. Oil and water.

Finally, he exhales, adjusting his glasses like he's buying time. "I have permission from the county to conduct this research. But out of courtesy, I introduced myself before entering your land."

"Well, Brett Elliot," I mimic his prim tone, "courtesy noted. Permission denied. The county can’t give you permission to explore private property."

The challenge in his eyes spark something dangerous in my chest. My heart is beating fast, and I have the same reckless feeling I get when the girls in book club dare me to read the really steamy scenes out loud.

It's the thrill of pushing boundaries, of seeing how far I can go before something gives.

And something tells me that beneath all that buttoned-up control, Brett Elliot might be exactly the kind of man who knows how to push back.

Before he can argue, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out, grateful for the excuse to turn my back on the man who has now crossed his arms over his chest and is staring me down. The Naughty Girls Book Club group chat is lighting up like fireworks.

Christine: Tonight’s plans? Pumpkin spice latte + chapter twelve

Maya: Just finished the kitchen scene. Never looking at spatulas the same way again.

Maybe I need to replace all my plastic ones with a couple sturdy wooden ones.

Holly: Stopppp I'm only on chapter seven! Don't spoil it!

Me: Busy drowning in cider barrels, but I'll make it. Probably late.

I shoot off my response and bite back a smile.

My friends are ridiculous, but they're the best kind of ridiculous. A few months ago, I joined my favorite author’s online book club.

There were even local chapters that met in person.

RJ, Emily, Holly and I met up just last week for coffee.

Once a week the entire club hops on Zoom together.

We laugh, we gossip, and we blush our way through stories none of us would have admitted to liking out loud anywhere else.

Tonight is our next meeting. The timing is perfect or terrible, depending on how you look at it.

Here I am, standing in front of a man who looks like he stepped out of the pages of our latest read, all brooding intensity and barely restrained authority, and my phone is buzzing with messages about kitchen counter scenes and spatulas.

If Christine could see him, she'd probably combust on the spot.

Hell, if any of the girls could see him, they'd be texting me demands for photos and detailed reports within minutes.

I shove the phone back in my pocket, cheeks a little warmer than I'd like.

Of course, Mr. Clipboard notices. He tilts his head, studying me the way I imagine he studies his plants and looks at me like I'm under a microscope. "Everything all right?"

"Peachy," I reply too quickly.

He doesn't buy it. I can see the skepticism in his eyes. Eyes that are annoyingly sharp, by the way. He narrows his eyes, and I see that look. It’s the look of a man who notices too much. He doesn’t miss a thing.

So, I go on the offensive. "Look, I appreciate your enthusiasm for apples, but you're barking up the wrong tree. Find another orchard for your treasure hunt. There are many to choose from on the Front Range."

His jaw tightens. "You're making a mistake."

"Maybe," I admit, squaring my shoulders. "But it's my mistake to make. And right now, my mistake is deciding this conversation is over. Some of us have real work to do." I keep my face neutral even if I feel a pang of guilt at my words.

The dismissal should be enough to send him packing, but something in his expression tells me this conversation is far from over.

There's a patience in his stance, a quiet determination that suggests he's used to getting what he wants, eventually.

It's the kind of persistence that should annoy me but instead sends a little thrill down my spine.

I dismiss him by turning my back toward the tractor, pretending I know what I'm doing, pretending my pulse isn't racing from the sheer audacity of this man waltzing into my orchard like he owns the place.

But he doesn't leave.

I can feel him standing there, his presence heavy and stubborn, like one of the old apple trees that refuses to stop producing apples long after it should have.

When I finally glance back, he's still watching me. His expression, unreadable. His clipboard tucked tight against his chest like a shield.

And just like that, I know this man isn't going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Probably not until he gets whatever it is he came for.

Which means one thing:

Brett Elliot and I are on a collision course. He looks stubborn but he’s never dealt with me before. I can out stubborn a mule. What happens if we collide? Will he back down? He’ll have to. I’m not changing my mind.

And if there's one thing I've learned from life, and from the Naughty Girls Book Club, it's that sometimes a collision isn't the end. Sometimes, it's just the beginning.