"You came," he said as I climbed out, and there was genuine warmth in his voice, like my presence was a gift he hadn't been entirely sure he'd receive.
"I said I would." I pulled my tool bag from the truck bed, using it as something to focus on besides the way he was looking at me—like I was more interesting than anything else in his entire day. "The trees are this way?"
"Yeah, just over here." He led me toward the apple trees, and I fell into step beside him, hyperaware of the space between us. Close enough to catch his scent on the breeze—that same cedar and something else, something distinctly Alpha that made my Omega instincts sit up and take notice despite my best efforts to ignore them.
I'd forgotten how intense an Alpha's scent could be. Or maybe I'd never really known—I'd spent so much time avoiding them, keeping my distance, that I'd never let myself get close enough to experience it fully. But here, now, with Garrett justa foot away and the air carrying his scent directly to me, it was almost overwhelming.
Warm. Grounding. Like standing next to a fire on a cold night—dangerous if you got too close, but impossibly tempting from a safe distance. I swallowed hard and forced my attention to the trees as we approached them. Focus. This was for work… not hormones.
The apple trees were old—decades old, maybe older—their trunks thick and bark rough with age. They'd been neglected for years, that much was obvious. Dead branches jutted out at odd angles, crossing and rubbing against each other. The canopy was dense and tangled, blocking light and air circulation. But underneath the neglect, I could see the good bones. These were strong trees.
"They're Honeycrisps," Garrett said quietly, watching me examine them. "My grandfather planted them when he first bought this property, back in the sixties. I remember coming here as a kid, helping him pick apples every fall."
Something in his voice made me look up. His expression was distant, nostalgic, tinged with sadness. "You were close with him?"
"Very. He taught me everything about working with the land—respecting it, understanding it. He always said land would take care of you if you took care of it first." Garrett reached out, running his hand over the rough bark of the nearest tree. "When we decided we wanted to stand on our own feet from now on, my father offered this to me. You may have heard of Old man Jack. That’s my Dad. He said that we could honor my grandfather by giving this place life again.”
The vulnerability in his admission caught me off guard. This wasn't just about renovating a neglected property—this was personal, layered with meaning and memory. I understood that intimately. My own land carried the weight of Margaret andTom's teachings, their love of growing things, their patient belief that I could build something beautiful.
"That's a good reason," I said softly, setting down my tool bag. "To honor him."
Garrett's eyes found mine, and something warm flickered in their depths. "I think he'd like knowing someone who actually understands plants was helping bring these trees back. He was particular about his orchards."
"Then we'd better do it right." I pulled on my work gloves, grateful for something practical to focus on. "Let's start with assessment. Walk me around each tree—I need to see the full structure."
We moved through the small orchard together, and I fell into the familiar rhythm of evaluation. Dead wood here, crossing branches there, water sprouts that needed removal. I pointed out each issue, explaining why it mattered, and Garrett listened with an intensity that suggested he was absorbing every word.
"The goal is to open up the center," I explained, standing back to gesture at the canopy. "Right now it's so dense that light can't penetrate and air can't circulate. That creates perfect conditions for disease and pests. By removing the interior branches strategically, we let in light and air while maintaining the tree's natural shape."
"Makes sense." Garrett tilted his head, studying the tree from my angle. "Similar principle to thinning a forest—give the healthy growth room to thrive."
"Exactly." I felt a small smile tug at my lips. He kept making those connections, seeing the patterns between different growing systems. Most people didn't think that way. "You have good instincts."
"Just paying attention to a good teacher." The compliment was casual, but his eyes were serious when they met mine. "Show me where to start?"
I selected the first branch to remove—a large dead limb that jutted out at an awkward angle. "Here. We'll use the saw for this one—it's too thick for the loppers. Make your cut just outside the branch collar, that raised area where it meets the trunk. That way the tree can heal properly."
Garrett retrieved the pruning saw from my bag and positioned himself at the branch. I stepped closer to guide him, pointing out the exact angle. "A little higher. You want to come in from underneath first, just a small cut to prevent the bark from tearing when the branch falls."
He adjusted his position, and suddenly we were very close—close enough that his scent washed over me again, stronger this time. Cedar and sawdust and something distinctly him, something that made my pulse quicken despite every wall I'd built against this kind of reaction.
Alphas could be a bit much. Their scents were designed to be compelling, to draw in and reassure their pack members. It was biology, nothing more. But knowing that didn't stop my body from responding, didn't stop the way my breathing deepened slightly, drawing in more of his scent like I was starving for it.
Get it together, Daphne.
"Like this?" Garrett asked, glancing at me, and I realized I'd been standing there frozen, just... breathing him in like some kind of scent-drunk idiot. He also probably smelt my own honeysuckle scent flare up. My scent wasn’t strong but it had a distinct smell.
"Yes, exactly like that," I managed, taking a deliberate step back to give myself space. "Now follow through with the main cut from above."
He worked steadily, the saw biting into the wood with a rhythmic sound that was oddly soothing. I watched his movements, professional assessment mixing with something less professional—the way his shoulders shifted under his shirt,the flex of his forearms, the focused expression on his face as he worked.
The branch came free with a satisfying crack, falling to the ground. Garrett straightened, examining his cut. "How's that?"
I moved closer to inspect it, keeping my breathing shallow this time. The cut was clean, properly angled. "Perfect. See how the collar is intact? That'll let the tree heal without rot setting in."
"You're a good teacher." He said it simply, matter-of-fact, but something in his tone made my cheeks warm.
"You're a good student." The words came out before I could stop them, and I busied myself selecting the next branch to hide my embarrassment. "Let's work on this water sprout next. Those vertical shoots growing straight up from the main branches—they're energy drains and won't produce fruit."
