Page 16 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter fifteen

Sawyer

“ T his… is less than ideal.”

I abuse my bottom lip, trying to keep it together as I check the wall clock above the closed classroom door.

Why didn’t I consider that there could be a class in the lecture hall before our Entrepreneurial Marketing seminar?

I press my back into the cool textured tiles of the wall directly across from the classroom and release a long exhale. Atty’s always yammering on about visualization before a game. Maybe if I visualize an empty classroom, I can will them to wrap it up early.

I just want to be in there already.

My anxiety about today is only amplified by Professor Eden’s lack of communication.

I emailed him last week to inform him that I was on campus and available to meet, as well as to ask how I could best prepare for the first day of classes.

My email was automatically forwarded to the department secretary, who responded with nothing more than what I already knew. That Professor Eden was on sabbatical and would be back on campus before classes resumed on Monday.

On the other side of the door, chairs scrape along the floor and a murmur of voices can be heard.

I perk up, my heart lifting. Thank god.

Tytus snags my hand, wrapping strong, calloused fingers around my wrist. “Stay close. If we wait until they start funneling out, we’ll be swimming upstream. Let’s slip in now, okay?”

Okay. I guess? At least someone here has a plan.

“Keep up and don’t let go.” He slips his hand in mine and guides me forward.

I follow him across the hall, and when he pauses in front of the doors, I hold my breath. Just as the one on the left creaks open, he gives it a solid tug, bypasses the person in front of him, and strides into the room.

I cling to him as instructed, sidestepping the sea of people coming toward us, and when we make it inside the lecture hall without being trampled, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Tytus squeezes my hand once. “Let’s get you settled.”

Circumventing the growing crowd, we make our way closer to the front.

Ty comes to a halt beside a now empty row, his hand still locked around mine. “Let me guess.” He smirks. “We’re sitting in the T?”

A mix of emotions pummels me. Delight, but also unexpected grief.

My dad always drilled into us the importance of “sitting in the T,” the T being any seat in the front row, or the seats near the center of subsequent rows.

“You know he’d be proud,” I quip. The attempt at humor is thwarted when my throat clogs and I choke on the last word.

Looking away, I take a deep breath. Then I drop Ty’s hand.

“Here is good,” I murmur, selecting seats in the first row, near the projector and podium.

He sets my bag on the desk in front of one seat, then slides into the chair beside it.

I take my time unpacking my laptop and a fresh notebook, focusing on my breath to temper the pain I wasn’t prepared for as well as the anxiety that’s plagued me all morning.

Then I hover, unsure of what, if anything, I should be doing.

“That must be him,” Ty murmurs, his focus drifting to the back of the room.

I follow his gaze and immediately note the man pressing through the sea of people. He’s easy to find as the crowd parts for him. Students scatter to get out of his way, either because they know who he is or because of the self-important vibe he’s giving off.

Professor Mercer Eden is as tall as Atty, so at least six feet, although much leaner through the arms and chest. His thick, wavy black hair borders on the edge of unkempt.

The overgrown scruff on his face only adds to his broody vibe.

He’s wearing pressed, tailored pants, and his white Oxford is rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned at the top.

His tan complexion is even more pronounced thanks to the visible dark chest and arm hair.

He stops near the podium and scans the room impatiently, the intensity in his dark eyes enough to make my heart stumble.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, worrying my bottom lip. Should I go up and introduce myself to him now? Or should I wait until—

Professor Eden clears his throat, and the room falls silent.

“Right,” he grits out, planting his hands on his hips. “Will the graduate assistant for this class please step forward and present herself?”

My stomach drops.

Oh shit.

That’s me.

Beside me, Ty mutters under his breath, but I’m too busy smoothing out my cardigan to pay him any attention.

Dutifully, I approach the podium. I place one foot in front of the other, praying I won’t trip, and do my best to ignore the dozens of students watching me.

Professor Eden scowls, tracking my movements in an almost predatory way.

His watchfulness sets my nerves on edge. That, or I’m just really anxious about making a good impression.

“Ms. Davvies, I presume?”

I hold out my hand to make introductions. “Yes. You can call me Sawyer. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor Eden. I look forward to working together.”

He zeroes in on my outstretched hand for an instant, but rather than accept it, he slips his own into his pocket and pulls out a glasses case. He slips the frames on. Then, still ignoring the greeting, he stuffs both hands into his pockets and cocks a brow.

Okay then.

Heat creeps through me as I awkwardly drop my hand, though I keep an even smile plastered on my face .

He crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re not studying marketing or entrepreneurialism, if memory serves?”

I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “That’s correct. I’m getting my master’s in library and information science.”

“So then tell me, Ms. Davvies, what makes you qualified and interested in this particular role?”

My mouth flops open and a rush of air escapes me. Is he serious? I’ve already been granted the assistantship. This does not feel like the time or place for him to ask me to defend my placement. He’s the one who didn’t bother conducting interviews or reaching out before the school year started.

How dare he question me now? And to what end? I highly doubt he wants to hear about my organizational skills or experience working at the library back home. As it stands, there are thirty undergrad students witnessing this exchange.

When I realize my mouth is still agape, I snap it shut. I don’t have an answer for this man, and even if I did, I’m not sure I’d dignify his attitude with a response.

“Right.”

He shoots me one last glance before waving a hand, effectively dismissing me. He takes two steps around the podium so we’re standing side by side, then claps loudly to garner the students’ attention.

“Welcome to Entrepreneurial Marketing. I’m Professor Eden, and I’ll be teaching this class. This is Ms. Davvies. She has been assigned as the graduate assistant.”

The warmth in my face turns to a full-on blaze at the not-so-subtle jab.

“This class is open to upperclassmen and underclassmen and can be taken in any sequence if you’re a business or marketing major,” he says, his expression stony, his voice deep and thick.

“But heed this warning: this is a true seminar. You will be graded on your ability to apply what you’ve learned in the classroom to real-world scenarios.

The class size is intentionally capped at thirty because of its experiential learning approach.

While you’ll be graded on several assignments throughout the semester, the full-class capstone project is weighted heavily. ”

Groans echo through the room.

Professor Eden claps once more, silencing the complaints.

It’s eerie, honestly, how he can command the full of the whole group with a single gesture. If I weren’t so perturbed by his prickliness, I might even find it hot .

“Office hours are posted on the department website and in the class portal, and should you have questions or concerns about attendance, please reach out to Ms. Davvies. Understood?”

The room hums with murmurs of agreement.

“Very well.” Professor Eden turns to me. “We’ll start by passing out the syllabus.”

I offer a placating smile and secretly exhale in relief. I may have lost my chance at a good first impression, but I’m fully capable of passing out papers and navigating a syllabus overview.

Several seconds tick by, the only sound a cough coming from a person near the back of the room. Professor Eden continues to stare at me, his eyebrows raised above his glasses, as if he expects me to take the lead.

“Oh. Um.” Chest tightening, I wring my hands and scan the podium and the table where he dropped his bag and jacket, though I don’t find the syllabi he’s referring to.

“Ms. Davvies.”

His dark tone brings with it a blanket of dread, and when I meet his gaze, a cruel smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Did you happen to print syllabi for the students for our first day of class?”

Embarrassment flares, and my neck, chest, and cheeks all heat.

A chair scrapes somewhere in the room. A phone clatters to the floor, the sound followed by a curse.

Otherwise, the room is silent. So silent, in fact, that I can hear my pulse thudding.

Suddenly, I know the sweater was a mistake.

It traps the heat radiating from me, only compounding my discomfort.

I tug at the hem, desperate for even a little airflow.

I refuse to take it off now, standing here in front of a classroom of undergrads, knowing damn well that my skin is red, splotchy, and damp with sweat beneath it.

Professor Eden continues to watch me, as if I can simply conjure up thirty copies of the syllabus out of thin air.

I clench my fists and breathe deeply, willing my nerves to settle, determined to figure this out.

“I did not,” I reply, my voice quiet though steadier than I expected. “But I can go print them now. I assume the file is in the class portal? ”

His dark eyes bore into me, the disdain there sending a shudder down my spine. But I refuse to back down. Especially in front of an audience.