Page 64 of Almost Ravaged

“Was,” Sawyer repeats. She presses her lips together and nods solemnly, as if cataloging the information for later. Then, as we approach the house, she says, “I think it could be again.”

Chapter twenty-three

Sawyer

As we walk toward the farmhouse, I hold my arms away from my body. One careless move and the sleeves of my sweater will be ruined, too. Or I might bump into him. Either would send me spiraling, I fear.

My face is hot, still flushed from embarrassment. I didn’t even realize there was a dog in the vicinity until its paws were on me and it was trying to lick my face.

I’m fine. Really.

My sweater, not so much.

But thank god Mercer wasn’t there to witness the encounter. He was around the corner and still distracted by his phone when we headed toward the house. So much so that he didn’t notice when I tried to signal that we were leaving the area.

“In here.” Noah jogs up the front steps of the large white farmhouse .

The door he holds open is a butter yellow color, and inside, my attention is instantly drawn to a stained-glass light hanging in the foyer. The colored glass, inset with flowers, hummingbirds, and honeybees, casts a warm glow over the space.

The white walls look crisp and clean against dark hardwood floors I’d guess are original, despite how well maintained they appear.

“You, uh.” Noah’s blue-gray eyes flit in my direction, but they don’t linger, like he’s too embarrassed to look at me for more than a few seconds. He lifts the backward hat off his head and runs one hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “You need a new shirt,” he says as he replaces the cap. “Right. Wait here. Or anywhere down here, I mean.” He waves, the motion jerky, awkward. “Not in that spot specifically. I’ll—I’ll be right back.”

He takes off toward the staircase, then hauls himself up them two at a time, his boots hitting the steps with thuds that echo through the otherwise quiet house.

I shift my weight, listening as the sounds grow softer.

I don’t trust myself not to track mud through the house, so I linger in the entryway and focus on the sun streaming in through the big bay window in the living room to the right.

The room is beautifully decorated. The plush, modern couch dominates the room, but a rustic coffee table and a matching rocking chair give it a more lived-in feel.

The bright yellow hexagonal rug is woven into a honeycomb pattern, and a rough-edged beam above the fireplace serves as a mantel.

The room calls to me in a way, urging me closer. I want to sink into the couch and trace the outlines of the ridges in the coffee table. But I’m covered in mud, so I stay where I am. And even if I weren’t, it would be inappropriate, right? Now that I work for this man?

Sort of.

Good grief. I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut.

I need to get a grip.

Rocking back on my heels, I peek down the long hallway straight ahead, and when a black-and-white photo on the wall catches my eye, I tiptoe closer.

I can’t make out the image from here, but he did tell me I could wait anywhere.

Though Noah is a stranger, and this is his home.

At least I think it is.

The place is huge. It’s far too big for just one person, which makes me wonder whether he’s married and if he has kids.

Halfway down the hall, I study the photo that caught my attention. It’s a macro shot of a honeybee, the details so crisp that even the hairs around its eyes are visible.

I move on to the next one, another that is indiscernible without some inspection. This one is honeycomb. Some of the holes of the structure are covered, the texture of that covering so crisp I have to resist the urge to touch the glass covering the image.

The next photo is a close-up of dripping honey.

The next, a bee perfectly positioned in the center of a flower.