Page 47 of Almost Ravaged

“My classes are fine so far. And aside from no longer being on ‘orchard time,’ I’ve had no problem reacclimating to my routine.”

“And your students?” he asks, one brow arched. “Any familiar faces? Or new pursuits?”

I scoff. “I’m insulted.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Dammit.

The downside of maintaining a close relationship with Noah for more than thirty years is that he easily calls out my bullshit. Sometimes even before I realize I’m bullshitting.

“I’ve had several of the members of my senior seminar in class before. That will likely be my most enjoyable class this semester. Also, I have a new graduate assistant.”

I leave it at that.

“And?” Noah asks.

I should have known he’d push.

“What aren’t you saying?”

I take a sip of beer to delay the inevitable. A mental image of Sawyer Davvies comes to the forefront of my mind, making it difficult to swallow.

Her hair. Her curves. Those tits. That body.

Most importantly, the smart mouth and unwavering stoicism she maintained when I railed her today. Only figuratively speaking, of course. I can’t let myself think about actually railing her. Even if her pale, creamy skin did pink up beautifully when she was embarrassed, inspiring all sorts of ideas.

What I wouldn’t give to make her flush like that for entirely different reasons…

Noah breaks the silence with a chuckle. “He or she either pissed you off badly or turned you on so thoroughly you want to choke them like you’re doing to that bottle right now.”

With a forced exhale, I unclench my fist and release the neck of the beer bottle aggressively enough that it comes dangerously close to tipping over.

“She,” I bite out. “Her name is Sawyer Davvies. And your assessment is accurate. We didn’t get off to the greatest of starts. But we’re stuck with each other. At least for the semester.”

He frowns, brows knitted in consideration. “She was only hired for one semester?”

The question sends a thread of relief through me.

“Technically,” I say, grateful for the subject change, “she was hired for the year, with the option of extending her contract if all goes well. But she has no marketing background. She isn’t even studying the subject. I don’t foresee her enjoying the role, and once other assistantships become available next semester, I imagine she’ll be eager to move on.”

I grimace at the thought of having to start over. Again.

“Unfortunately she’ll be your main point of contact for the class project.” I sigh. “But I’ll oversee her work. She seems motivated, at least, and the undergrads will carry the workload of the project, as they should. But I don’t anticipate this position working out for either of us.”

“Another round, fellas?”

Gordon, one of the upstairs bartenders, tips his chin, gesturing to our nearly finished bottles. He’s about ten years older than us and has worked here for aslong as I can remember. His parents opened Mae’s in the early seventies, and his dad still works the downstairs bar on occasion.

Though there are several bars in town, Mae’s is a classic. No, not a classic.Theclassic, a haunt frequented by everyone from undergrads to B-list celebrities passing through.

It’s a quintessential college town bar, with sports memorabilia on every wall and mismatched tables and chairs crammed into every corner. The bartenders here make the best Long Island iced teas on the planet, and if asked nicely, Gordon will order cases of a regular’s favorite beer, like he does for us.

I defer the question, defaulting to Noah. When he shakes his head, Gordon steps away, muttering a “Just let me know.”

“Are you on call tonight?” Noah asks when Gordon is out of earshot. He lifts his backward ball cap, smoothing a hand over his hair, then settles it in place again in a fluid motion.

I smile at the familiar gesture. He’s the only nearly forty-year-old guy I know who can still pull off a backward baseball cap.