Page 44 of Almost Ravaged

When it’s clear I have no more “website copy” readily available to recite, he sighs and strides to the bookshelf closest to the large window overlooking the courtyard. Using one finger to index the spines, he scans the tomes. Every few seconds, he pulls out a book until he’s balancing an enormous tower, then turns and holds them out me.

“Start here,” he says, dropping them into my outstretched arms.

He’s back at his desk a moment later, rifling through a pile of magazines.

“These will be useful as well.” He hands over a stack so thick I can barely grip them all in one hand.

“And then, of course, you’ll need to be up to speed on the assigned reading for class. You’ll oversee the weekly discussions in the online portal, including assigning articles for students to read as you see fit and curating discussion questions. I’ll forward the login information for the subscription sites the department uses for research studies and emerging trends. When we meet before class next Monday, I expect you to be up to speed on everything relevant that’s been published in the last six months.”

I slow-blink, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information he’s dumping on me and the speed at which he’s doing it. How does his brain work this quickly? I should be writing all this down so I don’t miss any of his demands, but I’m a little busy holding twenty pounds of books and magazines.

“We’ll meet here in my office at eight on Monday and Wednesday mornings. You’ll update me on class correspondence, and we’ll discuss current events and marketing trends, as well as prepare for that day’s lesson.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the side of his desk.

“Next week, you and I will head out to Evercrisp Orchard so I can introduce you to the owner. This orchard is the case study for the class project, so be prepared to become intimately familiar with the property so you can take on tasks involving logistics of getting students to and from the work site.”

He scratches his chin with his forefinger and thumb, then lazily lifts one eyebrow. “Should you be writing all this down?”

Of course I should be, but I’m still holding a stack of books while trying to keep the magazines from slipping off the top. My mind is already overflowing with all this new information. In fact, I’ve already forgotten the name of the orchard he mentioned. Applecrisp? No, Ever-something?

I frown at my bag and sweater at my feet. I haven’t even had a chance to dig out a pen.

“Return the magazines next week,” he instructs. “You may keep the textbooks until midterms, but I expect them to be returned in pristine condition. Eight weeks should be more than enough time to get through them.”

My chest seizes up. Eight weeks to read all this, while also working on my graduate classes?

He marches across the office, moving so quickly that the breeze he creates sends the hair at my temples fluttering. He pulls the door open and leans against the solid wood. “That’s all for now. You’ve got your work cut out for you, Ms. Davvies. I look forward to discovering exactly what you’re capable of.”

Chapter seventeen

Mercer

Hints of buttery caramel and apple spice flood my senses as Sawyer Davvies sails past me and out of my office. Once she’s rounded the corner that leads to the elevator, I slam the door and press my head to the cool surface.

Jesus H. Damn it all to hell.

Eyes closed, I inhale deeply through my nose, then let the breath out slowly.

How the fuck did I wind up with a graduate assistant who doesn’t know the first thing about marketing, and who also looks likethat?

From the second she walked forward in that lecture hall, I was fucked. Her every curve, her every damn freckle, was designed to the exact specifications of my ideal woman.

Thick, wavy hair, the same color as the leaves in late September. Soft brown eyes framed by thick lashes and smoky makeup. Pouty, lush lips. Freckles sprinkled all over her face, arms, and chest.

That fucking chest. A man could bury himself in that chest, and he’d gladly use his final breath to thank the heavens before suffocating in the perfect pillows.

Don’t get me started on her attire.

The straining slit of her pencil skirt was diabolical enough. When she slipped out of her cardigan, exposing the pale crests of her breasts straining against the low-cut tank top, I nearly blacked out.

This is what I get for taking a sabbatical. Either the universe is punishing me for my absence or the department secretary is playing a cruel joke by selecting this woman out of all the eligible candidates.

God dammit.

I drive my fist into the closed door, then shove off the wood and stalk back to my desk.

Sawyer Davvies should not be my biggest concern today. Right now, my attention needs to be focused on catching up with my colleagues and reacclimating to the day-to-day drivel of academia.