Page 116 of Almost Ravaged

Mercer catches my chin and gives me a pointed look. “Yes, I said three decades. Now let’s go before you make another joke about my age.”

In response, I nip at his hand. His eyes heat and his lips turn up in a wicked smirk. But he leaves it at that, silently climbing out of the car.

I follow, then pull open the back door to retrieve my oversized tote while Mercer circles the vehicle and pops the trunk.

While I wait for him, I rifle through my bag, confirming that I have everything I need: extra phone for recording, charger, backup batteries, and tripod.

I plan to set the camera up against the barn, facing the vista. That’ll allow me to get the storefront and bakery in the shot, along with a lot of the orchard in the distance.

“Ready?” I ask as I adjust the strap of the bag on my shoulder.

“As I’ll ever be.” He heaves an enormous sack over one shoulder, then pushes a button to close the trunk automatically.

“What’s with the rucksack?” I ask as I follow him toward the house. “Are you moving in?”

He gives me a surly glance over one shoulder. “No. Technically, I already have a room here.”

My steps falter. “Wait. Youlivehere?”

It would make sense. He and Noah are close, and he’s extremely familiar with the property. That room I stumbled upon on the first floor of Noah’s house, the one that was part bedroom, part office, with the guitar and the neat and tidy desk… could that be his? The books in piles on the floor would suggest it’s possible. The yellowed Dave Matthews Band poster on the wall as well.

Now that I think about it, it smelled faintly like him, too.

He stops and turns, dropping his bag at his feet. With an arm outstretched, he drags his fingertips down my forearm and interlaces our fingers, then pulls me a bit closer.

“Technically, I live in a condo downtown,” he says flatly. “One of those new builds near the esplanade. Walking distance to Mae’s. Exceptional amenities.”

He absently brushes the pad of his thumb over my knuckles, his focus set on our hands.

I keep my mouth shut, silently begging him for more information. I’m on the cusp of opening my mouth and urging him on when he tightens his grip, releases, and sighs.

“Noah’s world turned upside down a year and a half ago. I stayed here a lot right after it happened. My motivation was selfish. I felt like if I was physically here, at least I was doing something to help.”

That doesn’t sound selfish at all. If anything, it sounds selfless. Like something one would do for a brother. Or a lover.

Finally, he looks up, letting me see the vulnerability and candidness behind his eyes.

“Some days, when Noah couldn’t, I managed the business. Other times, I served as an extra set of hands, or a silent companion, close by in case he needed me. I couldn’t change the shape of his grief.” He lets out a self-deprecating scoff. “But being here, knowing he wasn’t alone, curbed my own anxiety. It gave me purpose when I was desperate to be strong for him.”

Realization clicks into place. “Your sabbatical?”

He peers back at the barn, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was here.”

I rock back on my heels, letting the confession settle.

It’s not unheard of for tenured professors to take sabbatical. My dad took two during his career. The first involved three months of road tripping around the United States, traveling from university to university in a rented Winnebago we nicknamed Minnie Winnie. Atty and I were six, and we hadn’t met Ty yet.

The other was longer. Nine months, I think. We were eleven, and Ty had just come to live with us. When questioned, my dad insisted he was burned out and just needed a break. But we all knew he wanted to be around more to help Tytus—and the entire family—adjust to our new living situation.

A gust of wind sends my hair flying wildly around my face and fallen leaves swirling around our ankles. Sweeping all my hair to one side, I look up at Mercer.

His attention is still set on the barn.

Tentatively, I cup his cheek. He flinches on contact, though he quickly sags and tilts his head, leaning into my touch.

“You care about him,” I surmise as I brush my fingers through the windswept tendrils on his forehead.

He catches my hand and brings my knuckles to his lips. “Deeply,” he murmurs, placing a chaste kiss across my knuckles.