Page 25 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)
Chapter twenty-two
Noah
T he light is different this morning. Smoother, with gentle edges, like the sun is still easing into the demands of the day. We’ve been open for the season for a few months, but the orchard still buzzes with anticipation of what’s coming.
When the weather turns, the crowds really show up. When the light goes soft, the visitors come in droves and the orchard comes alive.
As I make the familiar trek from my front porch down to the storefront, thermos in hand, Shiloh trails beside me, her paws already damp with dew. My boots, too. The crispness of the air hints at the colder days to come. Soon, I’ll have to worry about frost and winterizing the apiary.
I stop in the small clearing between the barn and bakery side of the store and inhale deeply. For a moment, I take in my surroundings, surveying the vista, noting the fog rising from the earth, and sip my coffee, letting myself be.
She loved this view.
How many times did I catch her right here, taking it all in like I’m doing now?
The ever-present ache in my chest flares. I miss her so damned much. I’ll never forgive myself or let go of the guilt .
For five seconds, I allow myself to feel it, breathing through the pain.
It hurts.
It always fucking hurts.
But I’ll be damned if all the therapy and grief counseling I’ve engaged in over the last year and a half hasn’t given me a toolbox full of ways to cope.
I’m too damn stubborn to let my loss define every facet of my life. Meg would be furious if she knew I was letting the grief consume me. God, I wish she was here to tell me to get over myself.
“I’m trying, babe. I’m fucking trying.”
Shiloh nudges my thigh, and I rub her behind the ears as I exhale, counting down my allotted sulking time.
“Three, two, one. Now done.” I give Shiloh one last pat, then head toward the storefront to get on with my day.
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 up the 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.
“Noah, this is Sawyer Davvies. She’s my graduate assistant this year, meaning she’ll be your point of contact for the capstone project we discussed.”
I extend a hand. “Ms. Davvies.”
“You can call me Sawyer.” She smiles and gives me a firm shake. I like that. “This place is great.” Her lips curve up as she assesses the empty parking lot, then the barn and farmhouse. “It’s all open to the public?”
I nod, slipping my hands into the pockets of my jeans, mirroring Mercer’s stance out of habit.
“For the most part. The orchard, apiary, barn, and storefront are open seven days a week, June through November. We’ll cut the cornfield into a maze next week, and the rest of the property is available for exploring, too. ”
“Except for the house,” Mercer interjects.
I frown at him. That’s implied, asshole . Thankfully Sawyer doesn’t seem fazed.
“You’ll want to walk around and get the lay of the land,” he explains. “You need to be an expert on this place so you can create content and guide the class. Noah can give you a tour—”
Mercer abruptly cuts himself off and pulls his phone from his pocket. With a grimace, he says, “Sorry. I have to take this.” He’s still scowling as he wanders to the other side of the porch, leaving the two of us to awkwardly stare at each other.
She nibbles on her bottom lip and tucks a loose strand of hair behind one ear, regarding me.
She’s pretty.
Really pretty.
Why do I feel so jittery? Must be the coffee refill in the bakery .
I jam my hands deeper into the pockets of my Wranglers as my pulse thuds loudly. So loudly, in fact, that I worry she can hear it.
“So,” I hedge when the silence gets to be too much. “You and Mercer are working together this semester.”
Sawyer’s brows shoot into her hairline. “I’ll be his graduate assistant for the entire school year,” she corrects.
Shit. That’s right. Merce’s concern that she won’t last all year is not something she should be privy to. Leave it to me to put my foot in my mouth.
“The year. Right.” I crouch and pick up my thermos.
As I stand and meet her eye, her expression is filled with determination, her lips pressed together in a tight line, like she’s holding back.
After a heartbeat, she scoffs and shakes her head.
“Figures. Graduate assistantships typically span two years.” She ducks, picking at a loose thread near a buttonhole on her sweater. “Thanks for the heads-up that he’s not counting on this lasting for even one.”
Shit.
My gut twists sharply.
She got all that from the couple of words I fumbled out? God, I’m fucking this up.
She saw Merce and me together at Mae’s, and she’s smart, so there’s no way she doesn’t know that we’re close.
And I’m a goddamn idiot, letting information like that slip.
“Look.” I reach toward her, then think better of it and drop my hand to my side.
Her eyes track the motion, though her expression remains stony.
“I’ve known Merce—Professor Eden my whole life. He’s a good guy. Intense. But a good guy, nevertheless.”
“Nonetheless.” The moment the word leaves her, she slaps a hand over her mouth and her eyes go wide.
I search her face, confusion swirling in my head. “Come again?”
“Sorry, I didn’t—I mean—”
“Is ‘nevertheless’ not right?” I push.
“No. Well, I mean… it’s not wrong.” Sawyer lets out a nervous laugh. “It’s just not the best word. Nevertheless usually refers to time-related matters, whereas nonetheless is more quantifiable. Measurable. ”
I cross my arms over my chest as heat creeps up my neck. “That’s the kind of thing they teach you in marketing and entrepreneurship class?”
Sawyer sighs. It’s a wistful sound, the kind associated with a cherished memory, or a time when life wasn’t so trying. It’s the kind of sigh I know all too well.