Chapter 5
By the time the last family leaves for the evening, the orchard feels bone tired.
Lanterns flicker low across the barn, the donut fryer hisses its final breath, and the hired teens are busy at work picking up trash that is left behind and straightening tables.
Within twenty minutes, the last garbage bag is taken to the oversized dumpster out behind the barn– where no one can see –, and the last of the employees has driven off.
There's something peaceful about this transition from chaos to quiet, from the bright energy of families enjoying their day to the softer rhythm of closing up.
It's my favorite time, when the orchard returns to itself and I can finally breathe without performing the role of cheerful hostess.
But tonight, the usual comfort is edged with awareness of Brett's presence, the way he moves through the space like he belongs here. Why is he still here? Why hasn’t he gone?
I lock the front gate, stretching my aching back, already dreaming of a hot shower and solitude. I turn and face my small house on the far end of the property. A few minutes’ walk and I’ll be home. That's when the sky cracks open.
The first flash of lightning cuts jagged across the horizon. Seconds later, thunder rolls through the valley like a drumbeat.
"Perfect," I mutter, tugging my hood over my head.
Fall storms in apple country are legendary.
They come on fiercely, suddenly, and are capable of turning roads into rivers in a matter of minutes.
I've weathered dozens of them over the years, but there's something about this one that feels different.
Maybe it's the electric tension in the air, or maybe it's the fact that I'm not facing it alone tonight.
Behind me, Brett emerges from the barn, hair mussed, shirt streaked with cider stains. "That's not good."
"No kidding, professor." I jab my thumb toward his truck parked by the edge of the gravel lot. "You better get moving before the road floods."
"I already tried." His mouth tightens. "Truck won't start."
Of course it won't. Because the universe has a sense of humor, and apparently tonight's joke is trapping me with the one man who makes me question every carefully maintained boundary I've built around my heart.
I blink. "What do you mean it won't start?"
"I mean," he says evenly, "the engine is dead. Starter's shot."
As if on cue, rain sheets down in buckets, drenching us both within seconds.
I throw my hands in the air. "Of course it is. Because why wouldn't the universe trap me here with you tonight?"
The words come out more revealing than I intended, but the storm swallows them before I can take them back.
Being trapped with Brett Elliot for an entire night feels dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with weather and everything to do with the way he's been looking at me, the way my body responds to his quiet commands.
His lips twitch, just barely. "You make it sound like a punishment."
I glare. "You snore, I'm kicking you back out into the storm."
The threat is empty, and we both know it. Despite my protests, despite the way he infuriates me with his certainty and his clipboard and his ability to see straight through my defenses, I wouldn't actually send him out into this weather. The admission, even to myself, feels like surrender.
“I don’t think we can make it safely across the orchard to my house.
I have blankets and bedding in the barn.
” We make it into the barn just in time.
Rain pelts the tin roof, thunder shakes the rafters, and wind whistles through the cracks.
The old wood stove glows faintly in the corner, throwing shadows across the walls.
The barn transforms in the storm, becoming something intimate and sheltered.
The space that felt vast during the day now feels cozy, almost romantic with the firelight dancing across the rough wooden walls.
It's the kind of setting that belongs in the novels my book club devours. It’s rustic, atmospheric, and perfect for a heroine to discover exactly how she feels about the brooding hero.
But not me. I’m not a heroine and Brett? Well, he’s far from a brooding hero.
I toss him a blanket from storage.
He catches it neatly. "Thanks."
We settle on opposite hay bales, the distance between us more intentional. I hug my knees, listening to the storm, trying not to notice the way his long frame sprawls across the bale.
Even relaxed, he radiates that quiet confidence that seems to be his default setting. The storm doesn't faze him, the primitive conditions don't make him complain. He just adapts, settles in, makes himself comfortable like this is exactly where he planned to be tonight.
"So," he says after a stretch of silence. "Is this a common occurrence? Storms like this?"
"Every fall we get a couple," I reply. "Usually knocks out power at least once. Orchard's old wiring can't keep up."
"Do you ever get nervous?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness. Most people would dance around the topic, make small talk about weather patterns or power company incompetence. But Brett just asks what he wants to know, confident that I'll answer honestly.
I huff. "About what? A little thunder? Please."
He studies me, unreadable. "You don't scare easily."
"Not true." The words slip out before I can stop them. "I just don't let people see it."
The admission hangs between us, more intimate than I intended. Something about the storm, the isolation, the way he's looking at me with those perceptive eyes, strips away my usual defenses, making me say things I normally keep locked away.
His gaze sharpens, like he's cataloging the admission. I curse myself silently. I’ve said too much. He won’t let it go. I know he won’t. Before he can say more, my phone buzzes.
Elizabeth: Ugh it is storming here too. But I'm distracted because CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Christine: The way he just takes her wrist and walks her out of the store. Firm but gentle.
Janelle: Monica you have to read this tonight. No excuses. We need to TALK about the book and we are waiting for you to catch up.
The timing is perfect and terrible. Here I am, trapped in a romantic storm scenario with a man who embodies every quality the book club fantasizes about, and they're texting me about wrist-taking and Daddy energy. If they only knew how close to their fiction my reality has become. My kindle is actually in the barn. I glance over to it. It’s next to Brett. Of course it is. Of fucking course.
I snort-laugh.
Brett tilts his head. "What?"
"Nothing," I say quickly, stuffing the phone under my blanket.
His brows lift. He doesn't press, but I feel the weight of his curiosity like a hand on my skin. He doesn’t look away, but stares me down, waiting for me to break.
The intensity of his attention should make me uncomfortable, but instead it makes me hyperaware of every movement, every breath.
It's like being studied by someone who finds you genuinely interesting, someone who's patient enough to wait for answers rather than demanding them.
Finally, I look away. When the storm doesn’t seem to be letting up, I get up and head over to the closet.
In the back is a chest that has bedding in it.
I’ve slept in this barn many times over the years.
Sometimes, from pure exhaustion and others because I wanted to.
I pull out the blankets and the sleeping bag.
We make small beds on opposite sides of the barn and say our goodnights.
Hours drag. The rain doesn't let up, and neither of us goes to bed. I pace the barn, restless energy thrumming through me.
The confined space amplifies everything, the sound of rain on the roof, the crackle of the fire, the quiet rhythm of Brett's breathing from across the barn.
I'm used to solitude, used to having space to spread out and process the day's frustrations.
But tonight, every emotion feels magnified by his presence.
At one point, a gust slams the shutters open, wind howling through. I shriek, just a little, more out of surprise than fear, and Brett is on his feet instantly.
"Stay back," he says, striding to the window with sure, steady movements. He slams the shutters closed, bracing them with a spare beam.
His response is immediate and competent, no hesitation, no asking for direction.
He just sees a problem and fixes it, his body moving with the kind of controlled grace that makes me think he's dealt with worse than wayward shutters. I realize how little I know about this man. He can fix a tractor. He’s strong and protective.
And the commanding tone in his voice when he told me to stay back sends an unwelcome thrill through me.
When he turns, rainwater running down his face, his voice carries that quiet authority again. "It's secure."
I hate it. I hate the way he’s looking at me. I hate the way he’s taken charge of the situation. I hate the way my body responds to him.
And, I hate how good it feels to have someone else take charge, even for something as simple as a broken shutter.
I've been handling everything alone for so long that the relief of having someone competent step in is almost overwhelming. It's dangerous territory, this temptation to lean on his strength.
"Thanks," I mutter, wrapping the blanket tighter. "I could've done that."
He steps closer, lowering his tone. "You don't have to when I’m here."
His words cut through me, warm and dangerous, and I look away fast. The invitation in his voice is unmistakable, and so is the promise.
That if I let him, he'd take care of more than just broken shutters.
That I could trust him with the bigger fears, the deeper vulnerabilities I've never shared with anyone.
Near midnight, the power goes out. The barn sinks into shadow, the only light from the stove's orange glow. The darkness changes everything, making the space feel smaller and more intimate. The storm outside becomes a soundtrack rather than a threat, wrapping us in our own private world.
Brett moves first, fetching extra wood, tending the fire like he's been doing it all his life. I watch him quietly, arms folded, not sure what to do with the strange knot in my chest.
"Come closer," he says finally, voice calm. "It's warmer here."
"I'm fine."
"Monica." Just my name. Low. Firm. Like a command.
And there it is again, the tone that bypasses my conscious mind and speaks directly to something deeper. The way he says my name makes it sound like a caress and a command rolled into one, impossible to ignore or resist.
And my feet betray me, carrying me closer before I can think.
“Good girl.” It’s the second time he’s complimented me like this.
The second time he’s called me a girl, like a damn child or a pet dog.
It should infuriate me. It doesn’t. It makes my clit pulse.
It’s a sentence I’ve read in a hundred romance novels.
A sentence I’ve heard in my dreams. A sentence that should offend instead of turning me into a pile of mush.
The heat of the stove, the crackle of fire, his steady presence, those two words, all press in at once. I lower myself onto the hay beside him, blanket wrapped tight, pulse hammering.
Sitting this close to him feels like the most natural and most dangerous thing I've ever done.
I can smell his cologne mixed with woodsmoke, can feel the solid warmth of his body just inches away.
Every breath brings his scent; every heartbeat brings awareness of how easy it would be to close the distance between us.
He doesn't touch me. He doesn't even look at me. Just stares into the flames, utterly composed.
But I can feel it. Feel everything and nothing at once.
I feel the pull, the weight, the unspoken question hanging between us.
I feel the attraction neither of us wants to admit is there.
For a man, a stranger. And, I have no doubt, a dominant.
A tender, observant and firm dominant. The kind I’ve wished would appear for years.
And here he is. Sitting beside me. I’ve always had courage to speak my mind, to defy societal norms and live life the way I want.
Until now. My outspoken personality has suddenly gone silent.
The tension is thick enough to cut. This is the moment in every romance novel where the heroine stops fighting her attraction, where she finally admits what she wants.
Maybe I should make the next move? No, this isn't fiction, and I'm not brave enough to take that leap. Because, what if I’m wrong?
What if these thoughts are colored by my love of a good romance novel mixed with sheer exhaustion? This could all be in my head.