Chapter 2
By the time the hayride barrels down the hill, squealing kids tossing straw like confetti, I've almost convinced myself Brett Elliot packed up his clipboard and hiked back to whatever ivory tower spawned him.
Almost.
But I should have known better. Men like Brett Elliot don't give up easily; it's written in every line of his perfectly pressed shirt, every precise movement of those long fingers as he adjusts his glasses. He's the type who probably has backup plans for his backup plans, who approaches obstacles like mathematical equations to be solved rather than walls to be knocked down. No, I know deep inside, he’s still here. Even if I can’t see him. Maybe he’s sitting in his car, calling someone from the county to complain about me refusing him access.
Maybe, he’s sought out another one of my family members and is trying to go around me.
But, I know, I just know, he’s not given up.
That’s why I’m not surprised when I swing the tractor around toward the barn, and find him there, leaning against a fence post like he belongs here. Clipboard tucked under his arm, boots still spotless, gaze locked on me.
"You're still here," I say flatly, hopping down and brushing straw from my jeans.
His mouth curves, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "You didn't actually expect me to just leave, did you?"
The way he says it, so calm, so certain, makes my stomach do a little flip.
It's the tone of a man who's used to being patient, who knows that persistence wins more battles than force.
There's something almost predatory about it, the way a wolf might watch a rabbit, content to wait for exactly the right moment to pounce.
I plant my hands on my hips. "That's usually what people do when they're told no."
"I'm not most people."
The nerve.
The absolute nerve of this man.
And the confidence. God, the confidence is both infuriating and oddly attractive.
Most men would have slunk away by now, egos bruised and tails between their legs.
But not Brett Elliot. He's standing there like rejection is just another variable in his equation, something to be adjusted for rather than accepted.
Before I can deliver the lecture he deserves, Mrs. Donnelly from down the road waves me over. Her grandkids are clamoring for cider slushies, and the line is backing up. I manage a smile, promise her I'll check to make sure we have enough workers doing their jobs, and duck into the barn.
The barn is my sanctuary, filled with the sweet scent of apples and the comforting weight of family history.
These walls have seen four generations of Hunter women rolling up their sleeves and making things work through sheer stubborn determination.
It's where I feel most myself, most connected to the legacy I'm fighting so hard to preserve.
But even here, I can't shake the awareness that Brett is just outside, waiting with that maddening patience.
And of course, when I come back out, clipboard man is still there. Waiting.
"What can I do to convince you to leave?" I demand.
"Give me access to the northern tract."
I snort. "Try again."
He pushes off the fence post, stepping closer.
Close enough that I catch a whiff of cedar and something crisp, like new books and fresh air.
It hits me like a physical thing, making my pulse skip unexpectedly.
It's nothing like the usual scents of motor oil and apple cider that permeates my world.
This is sophistication and intelligence wrapped in masculine warmth, the kind of scent that belongs in libraries and lecture halls and probably very expensive hotel rooms. It makes me wonder what other surprises might be hiding beneath that buttoned-up exterior.
"I told you before it's important."
"And I told you before, it's not happening."
We stare each other down. Somewhere in the distance, a goat bleats indignantly, like it's cheering for me. My goats are my second favorite part of the orchard. They are stubborn, playful and free spirited, just like me.
The tension stretches between us, thick as the honey from our bees. I can see the moment he makes his decision, almost watch the gears turning behind those sharp brown eyes. Whatever he's about to propose, I have the feeling it's going to change everything.
Finally, Brett exhales, adjusting his glasses. "What if we struck a deal?"
I raise an eyebrow. "A deal. What kind of deal?"
"You let me into the overgrown section. In return, I help with… whatever you need around here." He gestures vaguely toward the orchard, the hayride, the chaos of small children chasing a terrified chicken.
The offer catches me completely off guard.
I was expecting more academic arguments, maybe some name-dropping of important botanical societies or threats involving county officials.
I wasn't expecting him to volunteer for manual labor.
The image of Professor Perfect hauling apple crates and wrestling with farm equipment is so absurd. I laugh, sharp and disbelieving.
"You? Hauling cider barrels and wrangling goats? You wouldn't last ten minutes."
His jaw sets. "Try me."
The challenge in his voice does something dangerous to my pulse.
It's the same tone I imagine he uses in academic debates or with students who question him.
His tone is quiet but absolute, daring anyone to test his resolve.
And suddenly I want to test it, to see if all that polished control can survive contact with real work and real chaos.
And me. Can he survive me? "Why would you even want to? "
"Because my research matters." His tone softens. "And because I can see you're swamped. If it gets me where I need to go, I'm willing to earn it."
There's something in his voice when he says his research matters, a passion that breaks through all that academic composure.
For the first time since he walked into my orchard, I catch a glimpse of the man beneath the professor.
And despite myself, I'm curious. What could be so important about a bunch of old apple trees that it brought him here?
What kind of discovery could make a man like this willing to get his hands dirty? Why is this important?
I fold my arms tighter. He's not wrong about me being swamped. The tractor's failing, half the orchard crew called out this week with some sort of upper respiratory virus, and if one more goat escapes the pen, I might actually lose my mind. But letting him trample around in the old tract? Not happening. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen. It’s overgrown with broken down vehicle pieces spread all over.
If he falls… if he breaks a leg… My orchard can’t handle any negative news or a financial crisis.
Except… I don’t think he’s the type of man who would sue us if he fell.
"Fine," I say slowly, watching his eyebrows shoot up. "You can help."
He nods, triumphant.
"But," I add, holding up a finger, "helping doesn't guarantee access. You earn trust first. Then we'll see."
His mouth tightens. "That wasn't the deal."
"That's the only deal on the table." I need to make sure my gut instinct is correct about him. Make sure he is trustworthy. Make sure he won’t sue the pants off of me if a liability occurs and has no evil intentions for my property.
We're standing closer now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
Close enough to see the flecks of gold in that dark brown, close enough to notice the way his jaw flexes when he's thinking.
There's something almost magnetic about his intensity, the way he focuses on a problem like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
We stare at each other again, heat prickling in the crisp autumn air. He's not used to being challenged, but I'm not about to roll over.
Finally, he extends a hand. "Agreed."
I glance at his palm. Clean. Precise. Probably moisturized with lotion that costs more than anything I’ve ever owned. "Hope you don't mind getting dirty."
His lips twitch. "Depends on the kind of dirty."
The words hit me like a physical blow, sending heat racing up my neck and into my cheeks.
Because suddenly I'm not thinking about mud and apple pulp and farm work.
I'm thinking about the kind of dirty that features prominently in our book club selections, the kind that involves strong hands and commanding voices and exactly the sort of trouble I have no business imagining with a virtual stranger.
The Daddy kind of trouble. Could this man be a dominating Daddy type? Nah.
Come on, Monica. Get your thoughts out of the gutter.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, unexpected and infuriating.
He meant mud. Obviously. But my traitorous brain flashes to last week's book club pick, where the heroine ended up bent over a kitchen counter, having a wooden spoon applied to her naughty behind before being told exactly how dirty she was about to get.
Nope. Not going there.
I grip his hand firmly, ignoring the zing that shoots up my arm. "Welcome to Hunter Orchards. You break it, you buy it."