Page 117 of Almost Ravaged

Alarm bells ring in my head. Their closeness. The unusual connection between two people who are seemingly opposites… “Are you romantically involved? Or have you two ever––”

“No,” Mercer says with a small shake of his head. “We’re best friends, but just friends.”

My shoulders sag with unexpected relief.

He studies me, once again proving just how emotionally intelligent he is. He’s perceptive as hell, as if he can sense there are still questions lingering in the back of my mind.

His directness can be unnerving, but I can’t deny that it, as well as the ease with which he communicates, largely helped this rapport between us develop so quickly. I know that anything I want to ask, I can. Anything I need to say, he’s willing to listen to and consider.

“I like everyone,” he says. “I’m bisexual. Noah, though…” A good-natured laugh escapes him. “Noah doesn’t like anyone. Although he did marry a woman.”

I slap a hand over my mouth. He—what?

Good grief.

Is it possible that for all this time, while I attributed the stammering to a crush, when I checked out his forearms or cuddled up in the flannel shirt I have yet to return, I’ve been lusting after a man who’s in a committed relationship?

Despite my panic, I keep my tone even when I ask, “Noah’s married?”

Mercer narrows his eyes. Dammit, the man is far too perceptive. He senses that I’m freaking, though he doesn’t push.

It’s another trait I admire. He’s an open book, but despite his natural ability to see beneath the surface, he doesn’t call me out.

“Noahwasmarried. His wife died nineteen months ago.”

A pitiful gasp escapes me.

Good grief.

For a second there, I believed Noah Henry was a secret sleazeball for almost kissing me behind his wife’s back. But the reality is so much more tragic.

My heart aches for the gentle, quiet man. “That’s awful. What happened?”

Mercer peers over my shoulder at the house.

I turn, following his gaze, and find the man we’re talking about standing on the front porch, clad in his typical work jeans and flannel.

“That’s his story to tell.”

I nod quickly, understanding, more than he knows, how frustrating and dehumanizing it can be for others to share tragedies that don’t belong to them.

“Come on.” Mercer snags his oversized cloth bag from the ground. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

I adjust the strap on my shoulder and dutifully follow him along the pavers that make up the path to the house. As I track his long strides, it occurs to me that I still don’t know what he’s carrying.

“So what’s actually in the bag?”

He glances back, wearing a sheepish expression. “Laundry.” He shrugs. “I have a washer and dryer in my unit, but they’re on the small side. I’ve been hauling my dirty clothes out here since high school anyway. Sometimes Edna even agrees to fold them in exchange for organizing the supply closet. But I don’t even bother to ask unless she’s in a good mood.”

I giggle at the prospect of Mercer trying to convince Edna to do anything she doesn’t want to do.

With a renewed spring in my step, I trail along behind him, stealing one last glance around the property to appreciate the views.

Chapter forty

Mercer

Iclimb the familiar stairs, all my senses on high alert because of the woman trailing behind me.