Page 115 of Almost Ravaged

And there’s no doubt in my mind he’s still fantasizing about Monday each time he glances my way. It made class more than a little tense, trying to keep my simmering attraction in check in front of an audience of thirty students, but I’m more than happy to be discreet.

He’s sent me three emails since Monday.

The first, to praise the orchard content that’s been collected so far and to encourage me to keep pushing the students to do more.

The second, to tell me he’s still thinking about thetitillatingconversation we shared on Monday morning, and how he can’t wait for our next engagement.

Finally, he sent me the link to the Holt University human resources portal, suggesting I peruse the pages that categorize graduate assistants as nonunion staff, as well as the policy on staff-student relations and employee relationships.

As I read through the information in the portal last night, relief washed over me. According to the university’s policies, Mercer and I are both considered employees of the institution. Although I am a student, I’mnothis student, making whatever encounters we share above board.

I have no plans to go flaunting our hookup around campus, but it’s reassuring to know that being involved with Mercer Eden and daydreaming of our “next titillating engagement” won’t jeopardize my position or my education.

As Mercer turns into the gravel parking lot, I let out a contented sigh.

This place is special, and regardless of what happens with the class project or any other opportunity, nothing will keep me away from Evercrisp Orchard in the future.

Since my parents died, I’ve failed to find a place that felt like home. Yet every time I arrive at the orchard, I’m bombarded with a sense of familiarity and contentment. With each visit, that sense of rootedness grows. The pull of this place is more visceral with every day that passes, bringing with it an awareness that being here is more than just a requirement for my job. I want to be here; I want to belong to this place.

“You like it here.” Mercer catches my eye for a heartbeat before he turns to look over his shoulder and shifts into reverse. Bracing his right arm on the back of my seat, he eases the car into the spot. Even after he’s come to a full stop, he lingers, his eyes boring into me.

My heart rate kicks up a notch as I glance his way.

I’m not nervous in his presence anymore. Instead, I’m filled with anticipatory hope and this bright, vibrant flavor of joy I’d almost forgotten existed.

Being here with him has triggered a giddiness that bubbles to the surface and makes my tongue feel too thick to form coherent sentences.

We haven’t defined this connection we’ve been exploring all week, although Mercer made it clear that he doesn’t view us as temporary or disposable. I appreciate that—his directness and the open communication from the jump. But hooking up with my supervisor in his office and letting him cream my tits isn’t exactly the same as being in a committed relationship.

Not that I want to be in a committed relationship.

I don’t.

Or… shit. I guess I never have before. But what we’re doing doesn’t feel like anything I’ve done before. Maybe casual isn’t the only option I’m willing to consider.

“Ireallylike it here.” I unbuckle, then shift in my seat, pulling one leg up and under me. “More than that, I really like how I feel when I’m here.” Maybe the confession is silly. Maybe the sensation is one few people would even notice, let alone talk about. But for the last three years, I’ve endured a lonely existence. I was isolated. Intentionally unseen, because that was the best way to ensure Atty, Ty, and I could escape that fateful night without any additional fallout. I haven’t allowed myself to connect to a place or person in any meaningful way.

But now I’m here. And for the first time in a very long time, I like the way I feel. I don’t want to hold back anymore, and I don’t want to be afraid to admit that out loud.

Head lowered, I focus on the soft, frayed fibers along the tear in my jeans, plucking at a few loose strands to give my hands something to do.

Long, tan, hair-dusted fingers slide over my thigh and stop over the hole.

My breath hitches. His touch is casual, yet his grasp is firm and assured.

Instinctively, I lift my head. When I find his dark brown eyes boring into me, a small shiver dances up my spine.

“Astute observation, Ms. Davvies. It feels like more than just a place to me, too. It has for years.”

I readjust in my seat but cover his hand so he knows I want him right there. “For years?”

I’m dying to know what this haughty professor with the deliciously dirty mouth and sharp debate skills has in common with the gentle giant apple orchard owner who stumbles and stammers when he’s nervous.

“Noah and I met in second grade. We’ve been best friends for three decades.”

I make a garbled hum of acknowledgment.

Threedecades? That’s longer than I’ve been alive.