Chapter Text
Ed let out a frustrated shout, “Why?! Why can’t I do that, you motherfucking son of a whore?!”
All he needed to do was save the updated accounts, but the stupid shitting riddle-of-the-sphinx level business software that Izzy swore up and down was ‘so easy a trained monkey could do our books, Ed’ kept giving him an error message. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d swear the error messages were starting to take on a snarky tone.
When he’d started Queen Anne Orchards, it had been exciting; not knowing for the first few years if the trees would even bear fruit, let alone good fruit, kept him on his toes. Whether or not the business would succeed depended on his ability to strategize, think on his feet, and react quickly to unanticipated changes. And, oh, had he succeeded. Queen Anne quickly became established as one of the best orchards in the region. Ed prided himself on being a pretty fucking great tactitian, thank you very much, so when the peaches from the orchard started winning awards for best in the state, he was already prepared for the increase in business, having had the foresight to expand the orchard’s acreage and plant additional peach trees.
Queen Anne’s growth phase was also exciting; there were so many problems to solve, and devising a creative solution always gave him a little thrill. Izzy had convinced him to branch out a bit: grow pumpkins and gourds for the autumn and winter (“I’m telling you, Edward, it’ll be a goldmine. The suburban moms will buy the gourds for their ‘seasonal’ decorating, the Martha Stewarts will want fresh pumpkin for their Thanksgiving and Christmas pies, and the pushover parents will bring their snot-nosed brats to pick pumpkins for jack-o-lanterns.”); open a gift shop (“Impulse purchases, Edward. Customers come for the fruit and leave with farmhouse tea towels and scented candles and fucking potpourri warmers.”); and process some of the fruit in-house and sell juice and preserves. (“No, Edward, I don’t think it’s too much for you to handle. You’re the best in the business… Fine, I’ll take care of purchasing all the equipment and hiring more people.”)
Ed looked up one day and realized that he didn’t know three quarters of his employees or what the hell was even going on outside of the lines of debits and credits and “owes” and “paid.” He spent more time in the office doing inventory, ordering stock, sending bills, doing payroll, than working in the actual orchard. Was this all there was: inventory, stock, bills, payroll? Lather, rinse, repeat, day after day. It was all so fucking boring. He missed the rush of jumping into something new, succeeding or failing solely on his wit and skill.
Then Izzy’d gone and “streamlined” their bookkeeping with some new accounting software. And now it was taking Ed twice as long to get through the daily paperwork, and his hair was going grayer by the second, and his blood pressure was probably higher than was healthy because of this cunting twatwaffle of a computer program.
Fuck this shit. He had to get out of the office before he did something impulsive, like take a baseball bat to this hopped up calculator with an attitude. Izzy could deal with it when he got back from wherever he’d fucked off to. He flipped off the computer with both hands, threw open the office door and headed toward the gift shop at the front of the building.
Pete and a dark-haired man Ed had never seen before (which really wasn’t saying much since Ed spent all his damn time in that shitfuck office) were engaged in a serious flirting session and drinking bellinis when Ed emerged from the back office.
“Pete, I’m going for a walk; just want to check on things around the orchard.”
“Sounds good, boss.”
“Not sure how long I’ll be out, but those bellinis that I’m not seeing better be fucking gone by the time I get back.”
“Uuuuuhhhh, sure thing, boss.”
As the front door swung shut behind Ed, he could have sworn he heard, “That’s your boss? D'you think he'd be into nerdy blondes?”
Ed wandered up and down the rows of peach trees, deftly avoiding parents with small children, elderly couples, and twenty-something hipsters as they plucked fruit. He had taken a few steps into the second to last row, deciding where to go next (the juicing room equipment had been acting up lately) when a slight movement up ahead caught his eye.
The most breathtaking man to ever grace Ed with his presence was standing in the dappled shade, empty basket at his feet, staring intently at a peach on a low-hanging branch. He had reached up a hand to hold the peach gently by his fingertips - cupcake fingers, Ed’s mother called them - supporting, but not manhandling, the stone fruit; it was that movement that had drawn Ed’s attention.
The man was overdressed for a pick-your-own-fruit excursion: a daisy yellow button-down shirt tucked into teal blue slacks with black oxfords. There was no way he was making it through the day without getting dirt, and possibly peach juice, on his shirt or trousers, or more likely, both. He had rolled his sleeves up, revealing well-toned forearms. And if the way the shirt hugged his chest and shoulders was any indication, the rest of his upper body was equally fit.
His hair ruffled in the breeze, a golden halo of curls flecked with sunlight and shadows, and - oh - his face: lips pursed together in a frown of concentration, a wonderful kissable nose, sunkissed cheeks, eyes to get lost in (Ed couldn’t tell the color from where he was standing, but it didn’t matter; he’d happily drown in those eyes), an adorable little crease in his furrowed brow as he contemplated the drupe cradled in his hand as if it were about to impart the secrets of the universe.
Shit. Fuck. Shitting fuck. There was no way Ed was getting through this row without making an absolute fool of himself in front of this honest-to-god Vermeer come to life. So he did the only thing his malfunctioning brain could think of, he turned on his heel and beelined it to the next row.
He spent more time peering through the trees to the next row at the blazing spot of color in his otherwise drab day than he did at where he was going; he almost walked into a ladder, very nearly tripped over two different baskets, and stepped on multiple peaches that had fallen off the trees and not yet been collected. He reached the end of the row, not having assessed a single tree. Sunshine man was still in the same spot, the next row over, hands on hips now.
Well, Ed had been bored; he’d wanted something different. This feeling was definitely different.
Okay, you can do this. He’s just a customer who needs assistance. You’re a professional, bro. You’re a fuckin’ professional. So go be professional!
Ed started toward Leggy Blonde, who was looking damn fine from the back too, settling into his customer service persona. He even managed to get his breathing under control and his brain back online as he approached the man.
Say something witty, something charming. “So who’s winning the staring contest - you or the peach?” Oh, great job there, Ed. You’re a regular fucking Cyrano.
The man was- oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. He smiled and gave a soft little laugh, and Ed was a goner. He was Icarus flying far too close to this brilliant, blinding sun without a thought for his inevitable plummet.
Wait. What was he saying? Fucking focus, Ed.
“I didn’t realize it would be so hard to figure out which peaches are ready to be picked.”
“Oh, well I know a thing or two about that. I’d be happy to help.” This was terrifying. But, fuck, he hadn’t felt this alive in years. “If you’d like.”
Gorgeous hazel (emerald and azure and gold and honey) eyes flooded with relief. “Thank you. That would be lovely.” He held out his hand, “I’m Stede, by the way.”
Stede. Ed thought it was perfect for the sunny man standing in front of him.
He grasped Stede’s hand - fucking softest hand he’d ever touched - and smiled, “Ed.”