Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Daphne
Wednesday morning arrived with a pale, watery sunrise that painted the sky in shades of pink and gold. I woke earlier than usual, my stomach a knot of nerves I refused to acknowledge.
"It's just agricultural advice," I told myself as I pulled on my work clothes—worn jeans and a faded green henley that had seen better days. "He asks some questions, I answer them, he leaves. Simple."
But nothing about this felt simple.
I braided my hair with more care than usual, then immediately felt foolish for it. Why did I care what I looked like? This wasn't a date. It wasn't anything, really. Just a neighbor stopping by.
A neighbor who happened to be an extremely attractive Alpha who'd somehow gotten tangled up in town gossip that painted me as his potential mate.
I groaned, splashing cold water on my face. "Get it together, Daphne."
I made coffee—my own, not waiting for whatever Garrett might bring—and stood on the porch with my mug, watching the mist rise off the fields. The morning was quiet, peaceful. Exactly how I liked it.
So why did part of me keep listening for the sound of a truck coming down the road?
I busied myself in the greenhouse, checking on seedlings that didn't really need checking, adjusting things that didn't need adjusting. Anything to keep my hands occupied and my mind from wandering.
At exactly nine o'clock, I heard it—the rumble of an engine approaching. My heart did a stupid little jump that I immediately tried to suppress.
"Breathe," I whispered to myself. "You're in control here. This is your property, your rules."
I stepped out of the greenhouse just as Garrett's blue truck pulled up near my gate. He climbed out, and I had to admit—he cleaned up well. The flannel was gone, replaced by a plain gray t-shirt that fit him entirely too well, and his hair looked like he'd actually bothered to comb it this time.
He held up two travel mugs with a tentative smile. "Morning. I brought coffee like I promised. Though I'm guessing you already had yours."
I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "I did. But I won't say no to more."
As he walked toward me, I noticed the way he moved—confident but not aggressive, like he was trying to take up as little space as possible despite his size. Like he was afraid of spooking me.
Smart man.
"Thanks for letting me come by," he said, offering me one of the mugs. Our fingers brushed as I took it, and I tried to ignore the little spark that ran up my arm at the contact.
"It's fine," I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "So... what did you want to know about?"
Garrett's smile widened slightly, like he knew I was trying to keep things strictly business and found it amusing. "Everything," he said simply. "Show me your world, Daphne. I want to understand what makes it work."
And despite myself, all my carefully constructed walls, boundaries, and rules about staying uninvolved—I found myself wanting to show him.
"Alright," I said, gesturing toward the garden. "Let's start with the basics."
We walked through the garden in silence for the first few moments, me leading the way down the neat rows of herbs and early spring vegetables.
Garrett followed a respectful step behind, his presence warm but not overwhelming.
I could feel his attention on everything—the way I'd organized the plants, the trellises I'd built from reclaimed wood, the careful spacing that allowed each thing to thrive.
"You've got a system," he observed, and I glanced back to see him studying a row of lavender with genuine interest.
"Everything needs its own space," I said, kneeling to check the soil moisture around the base of a rosemary plant. "Too close together and they compete for nutrients. Too far apart and you're wasting land."
He crouched beside me, and I caught the scent of him—clean soap and something woodsy, like cedar. It was distracting in a way that annoyed me.
"Makes sense," he said. "Same principle as managing a forest, really. Thinning out the weak trees so the strong ones have room to grow."
I hadn't expected him to make that connection. Most people saw gardening as something quaint, separate from "real" work. But he was looking at my garden like it was a carefully managed ecosystem, which is exactly what it was.
"The soil here is good," I found myself explaining, relaxing slightly despite my intentions. "Acidic enough for the blueberries I'm planning, rich enough for most vegetables. I amend it every season with compost from my own scraps."
"No outside fertilizers?" He asked, voice filled with curiosity.
"Not if I can help it. I like knowing exactly what goes into the ground." I stood, brushing dirt from my knees. "Same with pest control. I plant marigolds and nasturtiums to keep the bugs away, and use companion planting instead of chemicals."
Garrett rose with me, his eyes tracking to the riot of orange and yellow flowers scattered throughout the garden. "Smart. And beautiful."
The way he said it made heat creep up my neck. He wasn't just talking about the flowers.
"The greenhouse is over here," I said quickly, needing to move, to do something with my hands. "That's where I start most things from seed."
I led him to the small glass structure, pushing open the door. Inside, the air was warm and humid, fragrant with the green scent of growing things. Rows of seedlings stretched across the tables in various stages of development, each one labeled with careful handwriting.
Garrett stepped inside, and the space suddenly felt much smaller. He moved between the tables with care, examining the seedlings without touching.
"This is impressive," he said, and there was something in his voice that made me look up. He was watching me, not the plants. "You really built this all this yourself." It wasn’t a question, but a statement of the facts.
"Over time," I said, uncomfortable with the admiration in his gaze. "It wasn't all at once. Five years of trial and error."
"Five years alone out here." His voice was soft.
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes."
"By choice?" I met his eyes then, saw the question beneath the question. He wanted to know why. Why I'd chosen solitude, why I'd built walls so high, why I bristled at the mere suggestion of letting someone in.
"By choice," I said firmly.
He nodded slowly, accepting it without pressing. "Must get lonely sometimes though."
"I have everything I need," I replied, perhaps too defensively.
"I didn't say you didn't." His tone was gentle, non-confrontational. "I just meant... it's a lot of work for one person. Don't you ever want help?"
I turned back to the seedlings, using them as an excuse to break eye contact. "Help comes with expectations. People want something in return—attention, conversation, access. I've found it's easier to just do things myself."
"Not all help comes with strings attached." He said, making me want to curl my lip at him.
"In my experience, it does." The words came out more bitter than I'd intended, and I felt Garrett's attention sharpen. But he didn't push, didn't pry. He just stood there in the warm greenhouse air, giving me space to breathe.
"What if it didn't?" he asked finally. "What if someone just... wanted to help because they respected what you were doing? No expectations, no strings."
I looked at him then, really looked at him. His expression was open, earnest. There was no guile there, no hidden agenda that I could detect. Just genuine curiosity and something else—something that looked almost like hope.
"That's a nice idea," I said quietly. "But it's not realistic."
"Why not?" Garrett asked, frown prominent on his face.
"Because people always want something, Garrett. Always." I moved past him toward the door, needing air that wasn't thick with greenhouse humidity and his proximity. "The coffee's getting cold. We should head back."
He followed me out into the morning sunshine, and I felt the weight of things unsaid hanging between us. Part of me wanted to explain, to tell him about the reasons I'd chosen this life. But a larger part—the part that had kept me safe for five years—knew better than to open that door.
We walked back toward the cabin in silence, sipping our coffee. Mine had gone lukewarm, but I drank it anyway, grateful for something to do with my hands.
"The Henderson property," I said, grasping for safer ground. "You said you had apple trees that might be salvageable?"
Garrett seemed to recognize the olive branch for what it was—a chance to step back from dangerous territory. "Yeah, four of them. They're old, probably haven't been pruned in decades. But they're still alive."
"You'll want to prune them soon then, before they put too much energy into new growth.
Cut away the dead wood, thin out the branches so air can circulate.
" I paused on the porch steps, finally looking at him directly.
"I could... I could take a look at them.
If you want. Tell you what needs to go and what should stay. "
His face lit up, and I immediately regretted the offer. "Yeah? That would be amazing."
"Just agricultural advice," I added quickly. "Professional consultation."
"Of course." But there was a smile playing at the corner of his mouth that suggested he knew exactly what I was doing—trying to keep this transactional, impersonal, safe.
"I'll stop by later this week," I said. "When I have time."
"Friday afternoons work for you? I'm usually done with everything by then." His eyes were light up with hope making me want to cringe away.
I nodded, already planning how to keep the visit brief and focused. "Friday afternoon. I'll bring my pruning tools."
"I'll have more coffee ready." He grinned.
Despite myself, I felt my lips twitch. "You're very confident in your coffee."
"It's good coffee," he said with a grin. "You admitted it yourself."
Had I? I didn't remember saying that out loud, but the warmth in his eyes suggested I must have.
Or maybe he was just that good at reading between the lines.An uncomfortable silence stretched between us, the kind that felt heavy with possibility.
I cleared my throat, searching for words to end this visit before it strayed any further from "neighborly consultation. "
"Well," I started, "I should probably—"
"Daphne." His voice was soft but stopped me mid-sentence. "Thank you. For this morning. For putting up with my questions. For..." He hesitated, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that was becoming familiar. "For giving me a chance, even though I can tell you didn't really want to."
The honesty in his words caught me off guard. I'd been prepared for charm, for the easy smoothness that seemed to come naturally to him. But this—this raw sincerity—I didn't know what to do with.
"It was just a garden tour," I said weakly.
"It was more than that, and we both know it." His gaze held mine, steady and unflinching. "But I'll take what you're willing to give. No pressure."
No pressure. The words should have reassured me, but instead they made something twist in my chest. Because the truth was, I could feel the pressure—not from him, but from within myself. The pull toward something I'd sworn off years ago, the dangerous temptation to let someone in.
"I'll see you Friday" I said, retreating toward the safety of my cabin. "Afternoon. For the apple trees."
"Friday afternoon," he confirmed, backing toward his truck. "I'll be there."
I watched as he climbed in and started the engine, watched as he raised a hand in farewell before pulling away. The rumble of his truck faded into the distance, leaving me standing alone on my porch with an empty coffee mug and a head full of thoughts I didn't want to examine.
"It's just agricultural advice," I muttered to myself, heading inside. "Nothing more."
But the words felt hollow, even to my own ears.