Page 60 of Almost Ravaged

Inside, I immediately go for the coffee. God bless Edna for having a fresh pot ready and waiting. I inhale deeply as I top off my thermos, relishing the scent of the dark roast blended with the notes of cinnamon and nutmeg wafting off the apple turnovers.

“It smells incredible in here.”

I take a slow sip, savoring the coffee.

I used to detest the stuff, but I have Meg’s and Mercer’s addictions to thank for converting me. I usually take it black, simple and easy, though last year, I sometimes found myself buying the pumpkin spice creamer she used to love. The flavor itself doesn’t appeal to me, but I like opening the fridge and seeing the bottle there.

“It was your grandmother’s recipe.” Edna takes a sheet of turnovers off the counter and carries it toward the cooling rack. “I can’t take credit for simply executing greatness.”

I smirk. I love this woman. I couldn’t run this place without her.

Edna is my late grandma’s sister and was her best friend for decades. She’s worked here for years, running the bakery and helping keep a handle on the day-to-day tasks when I’m out in the orchard or busy with the cider mill.

“Save me one of those,” I instruct as I head toward the front of the shop, passing by the baking mixes and jars of honey as well as the holiday décor.

To this day, it feels wrong to stock Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Halloween décor at the same time. Each holiday requires its own section, which takes up far too much space, but it’s how my mom did things. And Meg loved setting upthe Christmas displays in June every year. She said it was her holdover. A little burst of magic to get her through until the holiday season.

The ever-present ache strains against my sternum again.

I’m never not missing her.

Missing them.

I can’t walk through the store or wander through the orchard or apiary without that tug of grief pulling me back to my painful reality.

I breathe through it, like I always do, as I pass by the registers, silently waving to Bella as she checks out an older woman.

The customer fits into the category I typically try to avoid, so I beeline for the door, keeping my head lowered. Many customers have been shopping here since my parents or even my grandparents were in charge. Meaning they knew them, and they know what happened. A man can only take so many sympathetic smiles, and I’m not eager to start filling my quota this early in the day.

As I step out onto the covered porch, I eye the dust plume rising above the parking lot. Merce pulls in, and as he climbs out of his car, a young woman who looks vaguely familiar eases out of an older model hatchback a couple of spaces down.

He made his new graduate assistant drive separately? This should be interesting.

Mercer strides toward the store, buttoning his jacket. He looks completely out of place in his tailored pants and shiny dress shoes. It’s ironic, considering he slept here all weekend and only went back to his condo this morning to get ready for the week.

The redhead trails behind him, taking care to navigate the gravel parking lot in wedged heels.

I cringe at the footwear. They’re a terrible choice for a tour around the orchard. Mercer should have warned her.

My best friend glances over his shoulder and says something I can’t hear.

She presses her lips together and scowls but quickens her pace to keep up.

God. He’s such a dick sometimes.

The woman is dressed in a tight skirt and a sweater with half the buttons done up, her copper hair twisted into a braid. From here, her makeup appears minimal, leaving the freckles all over her nose and cheeks on full display. Her large brown eyes are framed by sooty dark lashes, and her lips are shiny.

Despite looking the part of put-together young professional, I can’t help but remember all the skin and curves that had Mercer practically falling down the stairs at Mae’s on Thursday.

She’s just his type. One of them, at least.

He’s so fucking screwed.

“Good morning,” I call out, resting my arms on the porch rail.

“Morning.” Mercer climbs the stairs and stands beside me, though not too close, as if not wanting to give away our level of familiarity, and shoves his hands into his pockets.

When Sawyer joins us, he steps back to make room, now keeping his distance from both of us.