Page 78 of Almost Ravaged

“Good morning, Professor Eden.”

A wily smirk tugs at the corner of his full lips. “Have you come up with suggestions for the class project?”

“I have.” I pull a red folder from my bag and slide the surprisingly thick packet onto his desk. “I went through the information you and Noah shared about the establishment and did a content analysis of the orchard’s digital presence, as well as a competitive analysis of similar establishments in a one-hundred-mile radius, as outlined in the class textbook.”

Other than a slight lifting of his brows, Mercer’s expression doesn’t change. “And what did your marketing analysis uncover?”

I nod at the packet on the desk. “The first chart on page three quantifies the digital footprint, or lack thereof, of the orchard. The second compares its social media and internet presence with the eighteen other seasonal orchards in the area.”

He turns to the proper page, then sits back, crossing one leg over the other, and rests my report in his lap. He’s quiet and focused and… damn, I think he’s actually studying the information.

My heart lodges itself in my throat and anticipation flares to life as I wait for some sort of reaction.

After a few minutes pass, he peers up. “You did all this?” He flips through the next few pages, scanning the additional charts and graphs I put together.

Assuredness blossoms inside me, leaving no room for nerves. “I did. I thought a competitive analysis of the market would be a good exercise for the class, but only after the site visit.”

Mercer nods, his eyes still glued to the packet in front of him. “Tell me more about this list on page eight.”

Grinning, I turn to the correct list. “These are suggestions for increasing traffic. Specifically for people between eighteen and twenty-nine.”

Mercer purses his lips, tipping his head back and forth. “And why did you select that demographic to target?”

“Families come through the orchard once a season. An annual visit, so they can take photos and pick out pumpkins. They don’t think about the place again for another year.”

Mercer raises both eyebrows but doesn’t interject, so I continue.

“The untapped market is in this age group—young adults with money to spend. People who tend to post about their experience online. Look at this…”

I pull my phone from my bag and tap the Instagram icon, then navigate to Kai’s profile.

Mercer adjusts his glasses and holds out a hand, gesturing to my phone. As I pass it over, the tips of his long fingers brush against my palm, and a zap of electricity travels up my arm.

“What exactly am I looking at?” he asks.

“My friend took a few pictures and posted them when we were at the orchard yesterday, and in less than twenty-four hours, they’ve gotten over a hundred comments, most asking where they were and what they’re eating in the last picture.”

He straightens, his eyes narrowing. “You were out at the orchard yesterday?”

My heart stutters at the sudden tension in the air, but I square my shoulders and keep my chin lifted. “I was. I was struggling with what direction to go with all of this.” I wave at the report now resting on his desk. “So I took my friends out there to brainstorm with me.”

A flash of surprise contorts Mercer’s features into an expression reminiscent of a smile. But he quickly snaps out of it, donning a straight face once more.

“Pretty pictures don’t drive sales.”

“True. But pretty pictures with a location tag shared by someone with a mostly local network could.”

He presses his lips together thoughtfully, then steeples his fingers. “Fair point. Keep going.”

“So much of what the orchard sells is consumable,” I say, scrolling back to the picture Kai posted of the pastries behind the glass in the store. “Slices of pie. Flavored coffee, cider, and apples, of course. Tailoring the marketing plan to people who have the time, means, and money to make multiple trips to the orchard throughout the season is the quickest way to increase profits.”

Mercer brings his steepled fingers to his mouth, tapping them against his lips, his wheels turning. I hold his gaze, feigning confidence, despite how out of my depth I feel in his presence.

The inferiority is frustrating. And it’s unnecessary. I did the work. Everything he’s asked of me, I’ve completed. My ideas are solid, and I’m proud of them, regardless of what he thinks.

He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he finally breaks into a satisfied smirk.

“Good work, Ms. Davvies.”