Page 20 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter eighteen

Mercer

“ H ow was your first week back on campus, Professor Eden?” Noah smirks, a hint of playfulness behind his gray-blue eyes, and brings his bottle of Molson to his lips.

Frowning, I study my best friend. Is he asking because things didn’t go well at the orchard, or—

“Not a trick question,” he grouses as he sets his beer on the bar.

Right. I strike the concern from my mind. The last thing I need is Noah griping that I’m coddling him. Again.

I take a sip of my own beer and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “It was fine.”

“Fine?”

Huffing, I pick at the corner of the Molson label. How much do I want to get into now?

If all I had to share was my class schedule or department gossip, I wouldn’t be so wary of sounding off in a crowded bar. But I’m anxious to share a hell of a lot more than that with my closest friend .

I’ll fill him in soon. I’ll have to, considering Sawyer and I will meet with him at the orchard next week.

But this isn’t the time or place to confess to him how I humiliated my new graduate assistant on her first day, then went home that evening and whacked off to the memory of her rosy cheeks and supple, gorgeous tits. Twice.

At the far end of the bar, a group of people chants, and a young guy spins the birthday shot wheel. It’s the reminder I need that I’m in a college bar, surrounded by students I have taught, am currently teaching, or could teach in the future.

Mae’s on Thursday nights is tradition. For us, for the city of Holt, and for most of the student body.

In a town where I’m either regarded as the weird kid who finally grew into himself or the slutty professor with no qualms about the morality of one-night stands, I know better than to shout about my grievances (and desires) regarding my new graduate assistant in a crowded room.

I’m not ready to divulge the depth of my ire at the situation nor the intensity of my fascination just yet anyway. No sense in making Noah worry.

Sighing, I swivel on my stool and provide the briefest and blandest of overviews. “I sat through far too many faculty meetings. And they switched out my computer while I was gone, including the keyboard. It feels different, and now I can’t type as fast as I used to.”

With a snort, Noah shakes his head. He knows how particular I can be.

“My classes are fine so far. And aside from no longer being on ‘orchard time,’ I’ve had no problem reacclimating to my routine.”

“And your students?” he asks, one brow arched. “Any familiar faces? Or new pursuits?”

I scoff. “I’m insulted.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Dammit.

The downside of maintaining a close relationship with Noah for more than thirty years is that he easily calls out my bullshit. Sometimes even before I realize I’m bullshitting.

“I’ve had several of the members of my senior seminar in class before. That will likely be my most enjoyable class this semester. Also, I have a new graduate assistant.”

I leave it at that.

“And?” Noah asks .

I should have known he’d push.

“What aren’t you saying?”

I take a sip of beer to delay the inevitable. A mental image of Sawyer Davvies comes to the forefront of my mind, making it difficult to swallow.

Her hair. Her curves. Those tits. That body.

Most importantly, the smart mouth and unwavering stoicism she maintained when I railed her today. Only figuratively speaking, of course. I can’t let myself think about actually railing her. Even if her pale, creamy skin did pink up beautifully when she was embarrassed, inspiring all sorts of ideas.

What I wouldn’t give to make her flush like that for entirely different reasons…

Noah breaks the silence with a chuckle. “He or she either pissed you off badly or turned you on so thoroughly you want to choke them like you’re doing to that bottle right now.”

With a forced exhale, I unclench my fist and release the neck of the beer bottle aggressively enough that it comes dangerously close to tipping over.

“She,” I bite out. “Her name is Sawyer Davvies. And your assessment is accurate. We didn’t get off to the greatest of starts. But we’re stuck with each other. At least for the semester.”

He frowns, brows knitted in consideration. “She was only hired for one semester?”

The question sends a thread of relief through me.

“Technically,” I say, grateful for the subject change, “she was hired for the year, with the option of extending her contract if all goes well. But she has no marketing background. She isn’t even studying the subject.

I don’t foresee her enjoying the role, and once other assistantships become available next semester, I imagine she’ll be eager to move on. ”

I grimace at the thought of having to start over. Again.

“Unfortunately she’ll be your main point of contact for the class project.” I sigh. “But I’ll oversee her work. She seems motivated, at least, and the undergrads will carry the workload of the project, as they should. But I don’t anticipate this position working out for either of us.”

“Another round, fellas?”

Gordon, one of the upstairs bartenders, tips his chin, gesturing to our nearly finished bottles. He’s about ten years older than us and has worked here for as long as I can remember. His parents opened Mae’s in the early seventies, and his dad still works the downstairs bar on occasion.

Though there are several bars in town, Mae’s is a classic. No, not a classic. The classic, a haunt frequented by everyone from undergrads to B-list celebrities passing through.

It’s a quintessential college town bar, with sports memorabilia on every wall and mismatched tables and chairs crammed into every corner.

The bartenders here make the best Long Island iced teas on the planet, and if asked nicely, Gordon will order cases of a regular’s favorite beer, like he does for us.

I defer the question, defaulting to Noah. When he shakes his head, Gordon steps away, muttering a “Just let me know.”

“Are you on call tonight?” Noah asks when Gordon is out of earshot. He lifts his backward ball cap, smoothing a hand over his hair, then settles it in place again in a fluid motion.

I smile at the familiar gesture. He’s the only nearly forty-year-old guy I know who can still pull off a backward baseball cap.

“Not tonight.” I rest an elbow on the bar. “Tomorrow, though.”

I’ve volunteered at Better Yet for more than a decade.

Being on call involves being set up with my laptop and phone so I can reply to inquiries from LGBTQ+ youth in crisis.

The nonprofit was started by a Holt University alum and has grown tremendously over the years.

I try to pick up a couple of shifts a week, usually on nights and weekends when the message volume is highest.

After some calls, it’s hard to believe I’m making a difference, but I stick with it, knowing what having a resource like Better Yet would have meant to me when I was younger.

“We should probably still call it a night. I need to spend at least a few hours on campus tomorrow morning, unfortunately. Unless you need me at the orchard.”

He sighs. “Merce.”

The name brings with it a nostalgic longing. I miss when my best friend could call me “Merce” and it didn’t feel like a heavy shift.

Noah searches my face. “This was always the plan. It was time for you to go back to work. It’s okay. I’m okay.” He nudges my shoulder and lets out a low chuckle. “I don’t need you tomorrow. In fact, after almost ten months of looking at your pretty-boy face every day, I could use a little space. ”

The smile I give him is pathetic, I’m sure. I’m supposed to be the one comforting and supporting him, not the other way around.

“Hey, Gordy. We’ll close out,” Noah announces.

I slide my wallet out of my pocket and set my card on the counter, since it’s my week to buy, and the two of us stand.

“Look at this place,” Noah grumbles once I’ve signed the tab. He heads toward the stairwell, adjusting the collar of his flannel, and I follow. “Classes are officially back in session.”

That they are.

Mae’s is packed already, but even as the clock ticks closer to midnight, people stream up the narrow staircase.

Noah takes the lead, and when there’s a break in the traffic, he starts down the stairs.

I dutifully follow, sticking close to the wall.

It’s the easiest method, even if we still have to bob and weave to avoid crashing into people.

“Head’s up.” Noah turns and presses his back against the wall.

I don’t catch on fast enough and get shoulder-checked by an enormous man pushing through the crowd. I turn to allow him to pass, sandwiching myself between the passing people in the process.

That’s when I find myself plastered against the wall, well and truly stuck, locking eyes with the woman who’s complicated my life and taken up residence in my head this week.

“Ms. Davvies,” I croak out.

Without my permission, my eyes drift over her, scanning her outfit. When I gain control again, I note the two giant boys flanking her.

“And Mr. Tremblay.” I arch a brow and stare down the undergrad at Sawyer’s back. The man whose hands are molded to her hips.

A rage I have no right to feel burns in my blood as I force my focus back to Sawyer’s face.

She lets out a huff, the scent of her breath—sweet, fruity—mingling with the warm caramel and cinnamon notes I’ve already come to associate with her.

I inhale on instinct, then take an even deeper breath when the first inhalation isn’t enough. Like a fiend, desperate for that next hit.

“Hello, Professor.”

Fuck. Me.

I don’t have to look at my best friend to know he’s smirking beside me .

Sawyer’s cheeks and chest are flushed. Maybe from alcohol, or the tightness of the space. Or, dare I dream, because of my proximity. I focus on her expressive eyes, cataloging the gold flecks in the light brown irises, willing my attention not to waver.

I will not look at her tits.

I will not look at her tits.

I will not look at her tits.

The command does me no good. Likely because repeating the word tits in my head only brought the memory of them and the desire for another glimpse to the forefront of my mind. I’m an intelligent man, but apparently not a smart one.

My attention drifts lower, and when I take in the fitted corset-style top that molds to her chest as if it’s been painted on, I silently curse.

It’s tight.

Just like this stairwell.

Just like my throat.

Just like my pants, as painful pressure builds behind the constricting fabric of my—

“Keep it moving!” a man yells from the bottom of the stairs.

With that, the spell is broken.

“See you both in class,” I grit out, pushing Noah’s shoulder, eager to put distance between myself and this source of temptation.

I block out my surroundings, solely focused on exiting the building, fixating on the faded Holt lightning bolt on the back of my best friend’s faded orange ball cap.

As we step out onto the brick-paved road, fresh air slams into me, offering a much-needed reset.

Students mill about nearby, smoking and laughing as they gallivant from one bar to the next.

Just like Sawyer and her lackeys were doing tonight.

Noah slaps me on the back, drawing my attention back to the moment.

He’s grinning like a fool when I finally get my wits about me and meet his gaze.

“That was your new GA, I take it?”

“Shut up.” Without waiting for him, I shove at my shirt sleeves and stalk toward the public lot where he parked his truck.