Page 59 of Almost Ravaged

She clings to me. With her chin propped on my sternum, she peers up, those expressive gold-flecked eyes searching my face. I hold her gaze for all of two seconds before self-loathing spikes and I have to look away.

She deserves more. She deserves to be with someone who doesn’t get locked up in his own fucking head or obsess about shit that happened more than a decade ago.

But I’m a fucking selfish bastard who can’t let her go.

“Let’s get you home,” I tell her, tipping my chin in the direction of the dorms.

With a slow nod, she grazes my sides, slowly releasing me like she doesn’t want to let me go.

I know the fucking feeling.

Her fingertips brush against mine, then circle around one wrist. “Hold my hand.”

It’s not a question, but a statement.

An offering I greedily accept. Because I need this woman. I need her like I need air and water and hockey and sustenance. I need her in a way that terrifies me.

It’s time to man up and be the person who can give her what she needs, too.

Beside me, Atty wears a stoic expression, though he’s still studying our interaction. I’ll have to talk to him. Make sure he understands. This isn’t a new thing, or a short-term thing.

Sawyer and I are endgame.

I lace my fingers with hers and squeeze her hand once. She squeezes back twice, and despite all we’ve been through, tonight and in the past, a fragment of hope rises inside me. Maybe it will all work out. Maybe we really will be okay.

Chapter twenty-two

Noah

The light is different this morning. Smoother, with gentle edges, like the sun is still easing into the demands of the day. We’ve been open for the season for a few months, but the orchard still buzzes with anticipation of what’s coming.

When the weather turns, the crowds really show up. When the light goes soft, the visitors come in droves and the orchard comes alive.

As I make the familiar trek from my front porch down to the storefront, thermos in hand, Shiloh trails beside me, her paws already damp with dew. My boots, too. The crispness of the air hints at the colder days to come. Soon, I’ll have to worry about frost and winterizing the apiary.

I stop in the small clearing between the barn and bakery side of the store and inhale deeply. For a moment, I take in my surroundings, surveying the vista, noting the fog rising from the earth, and sip my coffee, letting myself be.

She loved this view.

How many times did I catch her right here, taking it all in like I’m doing now?

The ever-present ache in my chest flares. I miss her so damned much. I’ll never forgive myself or let go of the guilt.

For five seconds, I allow myself to feel it, breathing through the pain.

It hurts.

It always fucking hurts.

But I’ll be damned if all the therapy and grief counseling I’ve engaged in over the last year and a half hasn’t given me a toolbox full of ways to cope.

I’m too damn stubborn to let my loss define every facet of my life. Meg would be furious if she knew I was letting the grief consume me. God, I wish she was here to tell me to get over myself.

“I’m trying, babe. I’m fucking trying.”

Shiloh nudges my thigh, and I rub her behind the ears as I exhale, counting down my allotted sulking time.

“Three, two, one. Now done.” I give Shiloh one last pat, then head toward the storefront to get on with my day.