Chapter 3
If I had to describe fall harvest season in one word, it would be bedlam. It’s been one day since Brett showed up at my orchard. He returned today, exactly on time, and I’d expected nothing less from him. Like any other day, bedlam has taken over.
But it's the most beautiful kind of bedlam, the kind that romance novels are built around, all golden light and cozy chaos and the promise that something magical might happen between the apple trees.
The air is crisp with the first real bite of autumn, and everywhere you look there are families making memories, couples stealing kisses behind the cider barn, children shrieking with pure joy as they discover the perfect pumpkin.
It's the kind of setting that makes you believe in happy endings.
Today, the bedlam has turned into chaos.
The hayrides are running late, the cider press is groaning like it's about to give up, and a toddler just stuck his entire head inside one of our specially carved pumpkins.
One I paid to have carved just right. His mom snapped a picture before rescuing him, because of course she did.
And, in pulling his head out, the entire design collapsed.
Forty dollars. It cost forty dollars to have it carved intricately and took less than two minutes for an unsupervised child to ruin it.
In the middle of it all, Brett Elliot is standing stiff as a scarecrow, trying to direct the crowd of tourists with his clipboard like it's a traffic baton. I bite back a laugh. He couldn’t look more out of place if he tried.
Watching him attempt to manage the cheerful chaos of families on a day out is like watching someone try to organize a tornado.
His precise, academic mind clearly expects people to follow logical patterns, to queue up in orderly lines and wait for proper instruction.
Instead, he's faced with the beautiful anarchy of children hopped up on cider donuts and parents trying to capture the perfect fall photo at one of our many, strategically placed, photo ops.
"You can't just wave them into the orchard," I hiss, jogging over. "They'll strip the trees bare if you don't give them bags."
His jaw tightens. "I told them to wait."
"Yeah, but you told them in your professor's voice.
Nobody listens to the professor's voice unless there's a quiz.
" I shove a stack of bags into his hands.
"Here. Pass them out. Make sure you tell them they can only fill one bag a person.
And smile. You look like you're about to take away their recess. "
The metaphor is more accurate than I intended.
Everything about his posture screams "stern authority figure" from the rigid set of his shoulders to the way he holds himself apart from the crowd, even the precise way he grips that damn clipboard.
He's probably the type of professor who makes students raise their hands before speaking and deducts points for tardiness.
He glares at me, but to his credit, he takes the bags and starts distributing them. Awkwardly. Like each one might explode.
I should be irritated. Really, I should. Instead, I can't stop laughing.
There's something endearing about watching this controlled, competent man completely out of his element.
He approaches each family like they're a new species to be studied while carefully maintaining distance. There’s an obvious relief when he can retreat back to his clipboard.
Watching him is like watching a nature documentary where the scientist becomes the subject.
"You're enjoying this too much," he mutters as I pass by with another crate of apples.
"Watching you flail? Absolutely." I shoot him a grin. "Consider it payback for lecturing my trees in Latin yesterday."
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "barbarian."
The insult should sting, but instead it makes me want to laugh even harder.
Barbarian. Like I'm some sort of uncultured savage just because I don't speak dead languages to my fruit trees. The academic arrogance is almost charming in its complete disconnect from reality and one thing I’ve observed?
Brett is completely disconnected from reality.
By the time the first hayride lurches back toward the barn, chaos has multiplied.
Half the kids are sugared up on donuts, two goats are being chased by employees– having escaped the petting zoo– and the cider press, my grandfather's pride and joy, is leaking.
The press is the heart of our operation, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship that's been making cider for three generations.
When it works, it's poetry in motion. Our apples transform into liquid gold through the marriage of tradition and physics.
We make everything onsite. Donuts. Cider.
Slushies. Even hard cider. But, when it doesn't work, it's a sticky, expensive disaster that can shut down half our sales for the day.
"Grab that end," I bark at Brett, pointing to the heavy wooden lid that keeps the press in place. Sticky juice is spilling onto the floor, and we've got a line of customers tapping their toes.
Brett crouches beside me without hesitation. Together, we lift the lid, cider splattering our arms. His hand brushes mine as we adjust the angle, and the contact is brief, fleeting, but enough to send a jolt of electricity racing through me.
His hands are stronger than I expected, the grip sure and steady despite the slippery conditions.
There's something surprisingly intimate about working together like this, our bodies moving in sync as we wrestle with the heavy machinery.
When our fingers touch, I feel that spark for a third time, the same electric awareness that hit me during our handshake, but stronger now, more insistent.
Could I be attracted, at least sexually, to this man?
Focus, Monica.
"Hold it steady," I instruct.
“I’ve got it. Trust me.” Something about the tone makes my breath catch. It's not harsh, not even unfriendly, just absolute, quiet authority.
I startle for a second and start to slip, the juice making a sloshy mess under my feet. He holds on to the edge, while I adjust my grip.
"Don't move until I say." The command hits me like a physical force, stopping my breath in my throat.
It's not the tone he used with the tourists or even the voice he used during our negotiations. This is something deeper, more primal. It’s the voice of a man who's used to being obeyed. And God help me, my body wants to obey.
This is my orchard. My press. Why is he giving the commands here?
I should be the one telling him what to do!
But, against all common sense, my body listens to him.
Everything in me goes still, not just my hands but something deeper, some part of me that recognizes the command in his voice and wants to submit to it.
It's the same feeling I get when I read certain discipline scenes in our book club selections, that breathless anticipation of surrender that I've never experienced in real life. The wooden lid is placed perfectly back on top of the press. We fixed it. As we stand there, the world narrows to the heat of him beside me. I try to slowly back away from him. To move away from the connection that I’m feeling all while wondering if he’s feeling it too. I take one step back.
Then the crate shifts, the weight tips, and—
Crash.
The sound of thirty pounds of apples hitting the floor is like a gunshot in the barn, shattering the spell that had wrapped around us.
Reality comes flooding back to me. The waiting customers, the sticky mess, the fact that I'm standing here fantasizing about a near-stranger's voice when I should be running my business.
Apples scatter across the floor in every direction, rolling under tables, bouncing against boots.
"Oh for the love of—" I shove sticky hair out of my face. "Great. Just great."
Around us, kids dive after the apples like it's a carnival game. Parents laugh. Someone claps.
Of course they're entertained. To them, this is all part of the authentic orchard experience. The charming chaos, the rustic atmosphere, the kind of mishap that will make for a great story at dinner parties. They have no idea that the man standing beside me just made my pulse forget how to behave.
I close my eyes and groan. "Do you see what you've done?"
"I?" Brett's voice is pure indignation. "You were the one who—"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence." I jab a finger at him.
The accusation in his tone breaks whatever spell his commanding voice had cast over me.
How dare he blame me for this disaster when he's the one who distracted me with that authoritative growl?
When he's the one whose presence has been throwing off my carefully maintained equilibrium since the moment he walked into my orchard?
For a second, his lips twitch, and I realize he's fighting a smile.
A smile.
"You're impossible," I mutter, scooping up a bruised apple.
"And you're infuriating," he counters, straightening to his full height. His shirt clings damply to his chest, cider soaking through the fabric.
The wet fabric reveals more than it conceals, outlining the solid breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength of his torso.
This is not the soft physique of a man who spends all his time hunched over books and microscopes.
This is the body of someone who hikes through forests and climbs mountains in pursuit of his research, someone who's comfortable with physical challenges even if apple orchards aren't his natural habitat. I’d judged him so incredibly wrong.
And I shouldn't notice. I really, really shouldn't. But my gaze lingers anyway.
When the last busload of kids finally pulls away, the orchard exhales into quiet. The sun dips low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and rose, and the smell of cinnamon sugar still hangs in the air.
This is my favorite time of day, when the chaos settles and the orchard returns to itself.
The golden hour light makes everything look like a painting, all warm honey and deep shadows.
It's the kind of lighting that makes even the most mundane moments feel romantic, the kind that would make a photographer weep with joy. Golden hour.
We close every weeknight at six but stay open late on Friday and Saturday for hayrides and nighttime bonfires.
I’m grateful it’s Thursday. I collapse onto a hay bale, exhausted, my muscles aching in ways I don't want to think about.
Brett drops down beside me, less gracefully, mud streaked across his khakis, straw tangled in his hair.
He looks completely wrecked. His perfect hair is mussed, his pristine clothes splattered with mud and cider, his glasses slightly askew.
But somehow, this disheveled version is infinitely more appealing than the polished professor who walked into my orchard this morning.
There's something human about him now, something real and approachable.
"You survived," I say, handing him a donut from the stash I hid earlier.
"Barely." He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, then nods. "This is excellent."
"Family recipe." I lean back, stretching. "You're welcome."
For a long moment, we just sit in companionable silence. The orchard glows in the fading light, the rows of trees heavy with fruit, the barn lanterns flickering on one by one.
There's something peaceful about this moment, something that feels almost domestic.
This is how I imagine spending my evenings, sitting together with my man in comfortable quiet, sharing donuts and watching the sun set over the apple trees.
It's a dangerous thought, the kind that makes me wonder what it would be like to have someone to share this with every day.
Then my phone buzzes.
Emily: Ok ladies. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. Kitchen counter scene. Dead. I am dead.
Elizabeth: Told you. The spatula would be used again.
Janelle: My husband just asked why I was blushing while stirring soup. He doesn't need to know.
Me: Still at work. Will catch up tonight. Maybe. If I don't collapse.
I smother a laugh.
The timing couldn't be worse or better, depending on your perspective.
Here I am, sitting in the romantic golden hour light with a man who's just spent the day proving he's stronger and more capable than his scholarly appearance suggests, and my phone is lighting up with messages about kitchen counters and culinary implements used for decidedly non-culinary purposes.
If the girls could see me now, they'd never let me hear the end of it.
"What's funny?" Brett asks.
"Nothing," I say too quickly.
His gaze sharpens. He doesn't push, but the weight of his attention lingers.
Those sharp eyes don't miss much. He's cataloging my reactions the same way he probably catalogs plant specimens, noting patterns, filing away details for future reference. It should make me self-conscious, but instead it makes me hyperaware of every movement, every expression.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and clear my throat. "So, scientist. Still think you can handle orchard life?"
He wipes sugar from his fingers, meeting my eyes steadily. "I think I can handle you."
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with implications I don't want to examine too closely. Because the way he says it, calm and certain and just a little bit challenging, makes me think he's not just talking about orchard work anymore.
My stomach flips, heat crawling up my neck.
I look away, forcing a laugh. "Big words for a man who lost a wrestling match to a goat."
"I'm still standing." His tone is quiet, sure. "That's more than I imagine most people can say after their first day here."
I open my mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. He lasted. He hauled cider, wrangled kids, and survived the chaos. And somehow, I don't hate having him here as much as I thought I would.
Which is dangerous. Very, very dangerous.
Because if I let myself think too long about the way his voice wrapped around me when he said don't move, I might admit something I'm not ready to admit.
That part of me wanted to listen. That part of me is starting to wonder what other commands that voice might give, and how willingly I might follow them.